These ashtrays are volcanoes now, apartments burn in red and brown. Salt the Earth and never grow, notice ashes look like snow.
Fallen and just sitting there, more trash then the County Fair. The smell of crowds, a burning nose, a smell familiarity morose.
Half-assed attempt only to fail; reflection ghostly pale.
You're waving while I disappear, ashes cementing my fear.
The Lawrence Arms, Another Boring Story.
Bar none, my favorite guitar solo in any song.
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