I'll stay here lying 
on your bed. Even for the rest of 
my days. With its side empty 
spaced, where you once used to 
stay. Have you ever noticed the 
glimpses upstairs? These rooms 
are all that matter. 

And on the 
walls these pictures scream and 
ask me what I've done to seem so 
amused by the way of having done 
nothing today. They all have their 
eyes covered up with paint. Their 
room is all that matters. 

I can 
walk up the walls, but can't make 
water out of wine. So I'm desperate 
for some cold rain to wash those 
hands of mine. 

I'll stay here 
listening to the crowds and hear 
the footsteps and the shouts. But 
it's all passing me by, tangled up 
in my own life. Have I missed the 
clue of your brave escape? For 
this is what - you said - matters. 

Some other town, some other day. 
Another clown, coming up her way.