i play such a good sane gamennobody believes where i gonnyou know i hoped i would grownbut i just got oldnand my paint blooming off of menis exposing all these holesnnheaven, a museum of dead angels andnin my mind they do what i tell them tonfallen in impossible angles andnunable to do what they're built to donni drift awaynsnares and lines behindncatch nothing on menthat i neednncomes a time when the last bitnof skin yields to scarnand that tissue is all you've gotnkeeping you herenndancing with invisible anglers andnwhen i'm done carefully remove the curlnsinking far past the surface andnthe net drops me from rafters to underworldnnstring me upnhigh as godnso i don'tnfall againn(2x)