Sitting, standing. Cliché reigning over talks and the news crashing down on the little people and forgetting details that make them seem ridiculous and completely unprepared. I am standing and I read the sentences of the famous man that was murdered and that lives forever in those words. Those powerful words that someone forgot to teach me how to pronounce. I am sitting. Listening to the cords of his guitar. With my eternal soul. Alone. Not lonely. Always trying to repair someone else and pretending I know how. Unicorns aren't real. If they were, they'll be blue and yellow, and they wouldn't fly. Inanimate objects call a name, not my name, they can't pronounce it. I told you cliché reigns over talks. I got two eyes and they are fine and see color so bright and soft and they can't see too far out.

This is nothing. Just words. But I could be wrong. Wrong for stealing lines and borrowing air. Kisses kissses kisssses in foreign countries where I once stepped foot. I am standing on the top of an ancient sanctuary and in the middle of a ball park. On top of the tallest hand-made mountain you can imagine, and the stars look so far still.

Once upon a time was too long ago.

But there's this song that reminds me of rainy afternoons and bus rides. What a long green ride. What a sharp image. What a dusty country and how colorful were those stamps. They don't use stamps anymore. It's a waste of ink, I heard. Also someone that now is really famous found out how to stamp in invisible numbers. My eyes can't see those, no matter how close they are. I haven't seen them this week. I also haven't seen that man. And I have seen too many strangers and I remember their names, and I've forgotten the name of friends and only remember their faces now. Memory. I have to back up the memory or I'll forget. But I won't ever forget of the rose that you killed. Who's waiting? Oh make them wait and they'll eventually go home. Push away, let go. What does it all mean? I was interesting at some point in time. And it wasn't too long ago, but no no more. Tell me a story and I'll make up the ending. The beginning is yours to keep I don't want it. And you can correct me, but keep the draft marked with red pen because I will through it out for you.

And someone said everyone will say they believe, but what if someone can't say it and that mouth doesn't even open for a smile. Oh the green grass and the warmth. What are those flying lights? The song's over, so I'll get up.