I'm writing reports of the days and the nights.
Locked up for years in a measure of mind.
When with a net of nothing.
I was trying to catch the motions of a mind.
And the methods of a crime.
I never saw the chance.
And never what I held in my hands.
The lights are all red in this town.
Where I'm killed by exhausts.
And alcohols that dry out my skin.
I never had a clue of the role that I played.
But that's the condition and the price that we pay
