There’s a house Anne built with a crumbling frame, she’d eat the paint chips off the wood and dream of a sun set she’d parallel as an identical being. A life cycle of dissolving lithium batteries in *****, chasing doctor death by staying still. Carbon monoxide filled the cavities in her brain and her corpse, a beautiful foundation destroyed in broad daylight, do loved ones say goodbye over the remains.
And in blood visions I see the home I’ll put together and tear apart. Is what’s inevitable a tragedy? If I stay in the garage and let the car run, the wood in the floorboards would still be fresh. Anne, my future is in all the architecture I’ve admired. If they’re all delusions, then reality’s a great impressionist and I’ve been picking off all of the yellow paint.
I will set with the sun, I will set with the sun
when day time comes to an end. and over what’s left standing,