Tw Walsh The Wages Of Dying Is Love
Send me back from whence come the tracks. Send my wife a
flower and a knife. For the words have stopped coming and
my legs began running. But the worst is the fact that
this world is a trap. It was only a way to see if I would
stay. Craft is a farce because love is so sparse, and art
cannot compare to the worst love affair. God has to exist
if we are born inside a kiss. But the truth is in my lap:
this world is just a trap.
