that butterscotch drink in your hand there isn't going to solve your problems anymore. you don't know these streets the way you once did, the city and the people here have changed from their old ways. you're at that tragic point in your life where your shoes have seen more than your heart, and your heart knows more than your brain, but your brain's all dead and so is your head and it's all nonsensical. when i greet you at your door, i'll give you dying flowers and my cancer-ridden heart, as tradition demands, but i will also request that you be gentle with me, with my useless heart, because they aren't worth a thing but they are what keeps me moving.
