sometimes i forget which text iím in | like i forget where i put the key or my guitar or what's your name | and i open one door after another | while in my back | the house is on fire | it smells like cinnamon | it smells like i am tired | with a chain of pain around my neck | iím trying to win | against the smoke that i breathe in | when i sing. || a black hole for a heart | a white star for a mind | i am exploding quietly | into the ruins of a life | that once was dear to me. || and the mess words leave me with | is nothing i could ever grasp | i fill my pillow with broken glass | so i donít have to dream | like gravityís rainbow | in every color shines the halo of sparks | from the short circuit | made by the liquid | that is dropping | from my face | "every death is an end in the race | itís a stopping and starting" | but it is not it is not | itís a stopping a stopping a stopping! || my heart became a bone | my mind left me alone | everything is at its place except for you | from the broken lines in space | i can tell that it's not just the sun | but your face that curves the room as well || mobile phones | mobile homes | with the doorknob in the hand | that is burning hot | my life is turning | into a literary hold up | signs under fire | and a pilgrimage caught in a feedback knot | and this answers the question | whether or not | there is a god||