Out the window, it’s snowing
Though it’s 27 degrees and sunny
The cottonwood has decided otherwise
Melancholy tufts of white
Disappear beyond the frame
“There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.”
And we’ll all float on, okay
And we’ll all float on, okay
And we’ll all float on, okay
And we’ll all float on, anyway well
Out the window, it’s blurry
The trees, the sky, the electrical wires
Melt into a scream as the train proceeds
Black, red, blue, yellow, green
Yearning towards the next station
And the next
And the next
And the next
And we’ll all float on, okay
And we’ll all float on, okay
And we’ll all float on, okay
And we’ll all float on, alright
Fault Lines 