Books are a refuge, a sort of cloistral refuge, from the vulgarities of the actual world.
Walter Pater
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Biên tập viên
Plush
And I feel that time's a wasted go
So where ya going to tomorrow?
And I see that these are lies to come
Would you even care?
And I feel it
And I feel it
Where ya going to tomorrow?
Where ya going with that mask I found?
And I feel, and I feel
When the dogs begin to smell her
Will she smell alone?
And I feel, so much depends on the weather
So is it raining in your bedroom?
And I see, that these are the eyes of disarray
Would you even care?
And I feel it
And she feels it
Where ya going to tomorrow?
Where ya going with that mask I found?
And I feel, and I feel
When the dogs begin to smell her
Will she smell alone?
When the dogs do find her
Got time, time, to wait for tomorrow