My mind changes day to day, night to night. Don't know why. Perhaps it's a vice I inherited.
Synaptic shock when I see them curl their locks. Don't know why. Perhaps it's a sign I'm defeated.
Am I an infidel? I don't call when I'm not feeling well. And I'm always not feeling well, cause I dabbled in a mystic spell in a den on la rue des enfants perdues.
The arcades, the casino, where I oft laid my head low, risking an awkward quick draw with the universe.
I was taught that the stars would catch me when I go. Well, I'm leaving, like the burnt-out streetlight on the boulevard.
Was that just a figure of speech? Was I just out of reach? Did I spend half my life letting the hands with the dice straggle me left-handed? I got a wife and a kid. Let me change the subject. Let it not come to this. May this letter find you better off than I did.
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