Takes a dried up ballpoint, lemon juice and water keeps diary invisibly.

In the kitchen corner of a basement bachelor's suite

There's a certain search for certainty you know we'll never see

Her hands touch her childhood home in photos that she took

It's one more omission from a highschool history book

How whole lives are knifed and pushed aside

To whom it may concern....This is to inform yours...sincerely yours

There's a bus thats leaving half an hour from now

It won't take her where she really wants to go

So she sits there with her luggage at her side

In the empty stations of our empty lives.

Take a broken bottle. Take a rafter beam or take a needle and a tarnished spoon

All just words to kill off one more unheard statement

In another dying afternoon, she said she's leaving soon

So so long to ten hour shifts and faking sympathies

Farewell to piles of bills, unpaid utilities

All rolled up and unfurled like a flag

Wake up and pack your bag

"It's like being sick all the time, I think, coming home from work,

sick in that low-grade continuous way that makes you forget what it's

like to be well. We have never in our lives known what it is to be well.

what if I were coming home, I think, from doing work that I loved and

that was for us all, what if I looked at the houses and the air and the streets,

knowing they were in accord, not set against us, what if we knew the powers of

this country moved to provide for us and for all people, how would that be,

how would we feel and think and what would we create?"