So says the piece of paper I found.
Looks like it is from a typewriter.
And it is completely dry on a rainy eve.
Smirk and storing this info.
I feel unique and lost, dragging myself.
There is blood on 44th street.
It stains my boots.
My new Upper West Side flat is lonely.
sheets and television and a broken mirror.
And so the truth is shit.
I don't sleep, I just walk.