The Excuse I wish the excuse Was yours to spin, and not mine. On the broken record of human history, This is the one I cannot sell, Cannot forget with the advent of the future. You are the one thing I cannot give to the wind To ghost over and fuck with you Like a painter fucks with his red fingers, Touching only to wash later. This is the one thing I will rape the radios for Just to remember that It did all happen. I will scratch you nice And look for the perfect future machine To replay the past To recreate the out-of-experience body. Eve