just this morning i read the last page of the book that you gave me when we were in sydney. what did i do? i closed the covers and went underground to be alone in this city again. find me a lonesome shore that's not my shower floor where i can rest my weary bones. and it'll be years until the day that i'll come back with things to say. i'll say that i'm not sorry i went away. four walls a bed a kitchen of honey and bread does not make a home for my head is in pieces the tension increases inside a skull that's so deep in the ground.