The first true love that folded at the slightest touch, brought down like an old hotel, people digging through the rubble for things they can resell. - Elliott Smith

You turned white, like a saint
But I'm tired of dancing on a pot of gold...
...Flecked paint.

The clock moved a quarter of a turn,
the time it took a cigarette to burn

Your hand on his arm, the hay stack charm around your neck, strung out and thin, calling some friend trying to cash some check, he's acting dumb, that's what you've come to expect. * I can't beat myself
I can't beat myself
And I don't want to talk.
I'm taking the cure so I can be quiet
Whenever I want.
So leave me alone
You ought to be proud that I'm getting good marks.