It’s curtains for universality, the applause has faded away, and with that damp musty smell, we’re left staring at days, hours, weeks, of irreductible silence stale.
The record skips repeating itself again. Broken. The record skips… it’s sunday afternoon and we’re left with the wind blowing through the cancer-ridden heart of this ghost town.
The parade’s over, everyone’s gone home.
The record skips, the record skips, the record skips.
