Watching the sand pile up where the river used to flow, watching the sand fill the channel til the water's gone underground. You're only the ghost of a river now, and the lines in the sand are the ghost of the current that used to boil over the rocks. You're just a zen garden now, sleeping in the sun.
And I'm lying here on a bed made of sunlight and flat stones, trying to remember the last late night that I didn't want to cry.
Watching the sun going down through the trees, watching the light shine like burning roses on the libraries and the grave stones. Seems like everybody I ever cared about is either dead or crazy, or both.
And I'm lying here on a bed made of summer moonlight and gravel, trying to remember the last late night that I didn't want to cry.
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