The smokestacks breathe like spitting out the truth. White lines disguised as fuel consumed. Under gray-blue skies we're simple machines, marks matched with greatness but tempting fate. Lines, faces, are drawn in the sand. It's better not to understand and turn your back on the city. Wine, it tastes like it did yesterday and finally you've found a way of turning your back on everything. Don't ever swing on three and two. Finding safe escape routes and saying the right things. The choice you make still affects me. We cling to this tension just to feel anything, leaving flesh for the effort we've made. Time to embrace. Time won't erase these guilty looks from your eyes. There is no disguise good enough to hide lines that are drawn in the sand. You've finally found a way. Don't ever, however. Written down in numbers and measured in waves add up to a sense of accomplishment.
