she had eyes bright enough to burn me. they reminded me of yours.
and in a story told she was a little girl in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field
and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was concealed
[...]
well the clock's heart it hangs inside its open chest
with its hands stretched towards the calendar hanging itself
but i will not weep for those dying days.
for all the ones who've left there's few that stayed.
and they found me here and pulled me from the grass where i was laid.
~the calendar hung itself, bright eyes
