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.