"An Angel On His Knees, Praying"
The wind rolls over my neck,
It seems as though I've made it through another sleep.
The memories haunt me as they always come back,
Absinthe was the only thing worth my energy.
My complacency,
On the twelfth night I tasted green.
The thirteenth was my unlucky,
My ultimate match.

On most nights I wish for an oriental slumber,
Turns out I was no champion at all,
In the early November,
If only you could remember.
Because it was truly,
A fucked up December.

I scribble my ink upon a wrapper,
A napkin.
It holds my destiny,
And the theory of relativity,
But none of this is relative,

The real issue at hand is,
Why go home?
Why not?
Why would it kill you?
Why would it kill me?
And why aren't we free?