He just goes on and talks and goes on talking, even though he is no longer making any sense.
HE: This is all taking a lot longer than I originally suspected. There are men all around me, and there are dreams behind me, and messages coming through the waves that I don't understand. Nothing is writing on me in a way that I can still read it by the morning, and every day there is more travel with these old men, going to a place that I don't feel safe, and have every reason to believe does not really want me there. All the men here are sick and heartbroken, and they talk about the last good thing that happened to them, and they tell me stories about what it was like to lay with a woman they loved, and then lost. And it feels like the waves are filling up with the songs of these women, and their hearts are lying somewhere between oceans. And I can't remember what I lost, or what I miss, or what it was that I was trying to get away from, but I know I can't stay here very much longer, because when I stop moving, I stop wanting, and when I stop wanting, I stop knowing the things there are to know. And tonight I feel like all my ghosts have left me, and I'm left with a napkin covered with the lipstick traces of a woman that I will never understand, and tonight, she is the only thing that I could imagine missing.
Oh, he has been haunted, he has been chanted and cursed and forgotten and broken to pieces and remembered at the edges of an old canal, and if he had his wits about them, he might understand the channels of his own heart, and if he were awake enough to let himself fall into his real dream, then he might start to see the films playing on his heart, and he would see that there is a heartbreaking beauty in his heart, something ready to be born in the world that few men ever get to see and live.
HE: This is all taking a lot longer than I originally suspected. There are men all around me, and there are dreams behind me, and messages coming through the waves that I don't understand. Nothing is writing on me in a way that I can still read it by the morning, and every day there is more travel with these old men, going to a place that I don't feel safe, and have every reason to believe does not really want me there. All the men here are sick and heartbroken, and they talk about the last good thing that happened to them, and they tell me stories about what it was like to lay with a woman they loved, and then lost. And it feels like the waves are filling up with the songs of these women, and their hearts are lying somewhere between oceans. And I can't remember what I lost, or what I miss, or what it was that I was trying to get away from, but I know I can't stay here very much longer, because when I stop moving, I stop wanting, and when I stop wanting, I stop knowing the things there are to know. And tonight I feel like all my ghosts have left me, and I'm left with a napkin covered with the lipstick traces of a woman that I will never understand, and tonight, she is the only thing that I could imagine missing.
Oh, he has been haunted, he has been chanted and cursed and forgotten and broken to pieces and remembered at the edges of an old canal, and if he had his wits about them, he might understand the channels of his own heart, and if he were awake enough to let himself fall into his real dream, then he might start to see the films playing on his heart, and he would see that there is a heartbreaking beauty in his heart, something ready to be born in the world that few men ever get to see and live.
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