This bed is a comfort, Much like the sounds of used water flowing through ninety-year-old pipess, Soothing me, while the sounds of the city are brooding inside of me, and it’s the same.
It may be the pinnacle of 1922, pre-collapse Providence, but it’s the same.
It may be different, but it’s just the same, And that's just the way it is So I cool this brain that's on the fritz And do my best to keep sane.
The wallpaper is interactive and there's an infinitude of pigeons on a television screen that is worth more than my apartment, and it’s still the same.
The rug is soaked just the same, the lingering odor of feet is the same, and I can feel all the ghosts of guests from the last century trying to, dying to speak to me and through me, and it’s the same.
The way the sun rises makes me feel like I have no cause to be awake or asleep, but I’m awake, and it’s the same.
The stress of lost cigarettes, and the blame of untapped digresses into unnecessary depths is the same.
The way I’m viewing the start of this day that hasn't yet is the same,