Histrionic

Wrinkled sheets, rental beds, Some damp street, neon spreads, Cigarettes heat women’s breath and stain their tips in red. Outside: ten degrees, a thousand inside, The smell of the liquor spilled on towels... But that man feels no regrets, no sins at all. So he tunes his life in a key so high But he can never understand that the dark of sky Between what’s stone and light a star is made. He tries to shine by feeding on with flames Life is really strange... You burn yourself and pretend you don’t feel it! And now he says he’s feeling okay And now he says he’s feeling no pain And now he says... And now... Even though he is drowning at each yard That man keeps diving lower In spite of people and what they can say. So he tunes his life in a key so high But he can never understand that the dark of sky Between what’s stone and light a star is made. Mistunes the choir throwing clefs and sounds at the ground. He just hears himself... Does he make his way? To sing out loud is not the same of writing your own song.