My Own Idle Idaho

We re getting back in here to die for our inner pain and to shout out loud our love.

The rain is falling,the rain is falling,the rain is falling, you are falling, you are falling,you are falling,i am falling,i am falling,i am falling,we used to fell we used to failed.

The sculpture of the words-drop,dark of inner preservation, and lies in a prefered order; the rain is falling grey,the eyes are closed and with clouds.

You gotta be a genuis, you gotta be a genuis,we're the life holding death, the cristal laugh who's left, on the desert's up and down road behind this place called home.

We re into the limitation of classic view,a cinematic sentence who can turn old to new, piceses in pieces your arrow made them blew.

Can i comb your hair?Can i comb your hair?Can i breath your hair? The sky is indifferent,whether you clame and scream: LIGHT ON ME NOW! Something is reacting,the wind, the wind, the wind,call yourself as much as you like, compassion is vulnerable.

No promesses, no promesses,no process, keep safe your dream,packed there,craft wrapped,i won t tell anyone,where are we?where is home?is it here and there? are we them or here?

The broken bed,the broken bed,the breakfast lane, tomorrow you'll say:don t wake me up ever again,dreams are private,your own idle idaho,your own,your own, your own love.

Rain is lauging, rain is orgasming,the white of the sky on your now combed dry hair, we re like the egg, we re like the egg,we re like the egg,denied of the panic, they like tarot playing,life is better on drawings.

We came back here to die with our inner pain and to howl our love to the world.