It's a permanent scar,
There's a payphone out back,
You can drop a token glance,
at th countertop when leaving.
You could find yourself,
Underneath the strong box,
With the name of hell,
Written in napalm.
Into the arms of anyone that,
Hovers in this general space,
These are the sort of random things,
That make life interesting.
It's demanding as hell.
Tell the truth. Set a scene.
Block the whole damn thing
In some supermarket
After hours in the staff
Break room with a motion
Detecting lense
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