Bury me in a shallow grave. So the rain will

wash me away. And the sun will burn my soul

and the earth will feed on me.

The earth must drink my sour blood

To breathe.

My disease is caustic pain. I'm stumbling but

I'm trying to say that I'm crumbling away.

In the corner you'll find me. On the back of the bus.

Sterile, sterile vision