Trombone solo, following something half dead.
Sometimes that horn is crying.
So precious few hours of night.
So precisous few hours to a life.
Perhaps that's why my issolation is such a travesty.
This box is too small.
I want to write on the side of a white building.
Fill in the world with my blues.
From midnight to alice.
Wishes.
Like dreams.
Like candles.
Like ceremonies.
Like farces.
A violin, a fiddle.
Marked some place secret.
