Old paper factory town.
The air smells of boiling cabbage,
and even when the sun shines
the cold air could chill your bones.

There’s not much more to do than sit around, counting our fingers.
Nobody can make it very far -
they’re either too old or too high.

Three headless horsemen stand guard before the ungrateful.

Maybe I don’t need to find my place.

Maybe anywhere could be my place,
as long as I am in your arms.