Scoot and make as was Smell come in on the train Then dunk in sacrone Left at trow's ennui All ours anchor To the aching bone Programmed without form Programmed without sound Austere known your pen Throats inside of glass Hanging next to me Eyes all disappear Gloss tones speak in turn Chew in such a rush Lands strength a rolling home Lie doesn't hold mass I found myself awake and walking The two of you arrive Backs turned to the spitting But they have not a dream No one was there Look towards the face Becoming very clear