A chip in the paint and a hole in the wall, from which into if you fell, you'd never return. Or a stain on the wood of the great coffee tree-cum-table, runaway like a horse in a burning-down stable. Run sideways run down and pick your street now, it's where youll be spending your dimes, spending your time away on the clock, better think twice it's the only house on the block. Like a slight left-leg hobble, set in stones, set in cobble, fly paper planes through your minds window-frames, and let them ring out as they fly, and intrude the airspace that is owned by all, until one great hole becomes it's mountain, and the only thing left because of it, is the sorrowful fountain.
