quick sketch.
Tonight is the night to make a valley from erosion.
Tonight is the night to make some gibberish, a poem.
And tonight is the night to make a river, into an ocean.
I could write a fairytale around the lies you've spun me.
You disguised them as paperbags and month-old magazines.
Calling voicemail just to hear a human voice.
If dreaming were a sin, than reality's a choice.
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