| I knew this man, he had some kind of fatal affliction
|
| Each day, a tiny particle, a small drop of his soul, leaked or
|
| Escaped into the air, out beyond the insipid the gray sky and
|
| Into dead space
|
| The paranormal specialist could find no way to plug the tiny perforations
|
| Which dripped his spirit behind him as he went on down the highway
|
| Fall in love with me, fall in love with me
|
| It’s not impossible
|
| Fall in love with me, fall in love with me
|
| It’s not impossible
|
| It was attributed to hashish and opium addiction, excessive womanizing
|
| Lashings of money and flattery, and a charmed, but not charming life
|
| Who can describe the agony of this gradual soul depletion?
|
| Too cowardly to take his own life, he roamed the cafes and cabarets
|
| Searching out other wretches who shared his most hideous malady
|
| And they spent their days in sophistry and idle banter, as their
|
| Essence oozed, and the void moved ever closer
|
| Fred, the man, charlatan bastard, poor piteous doomed puppet
|
| Immersed himself in these vices, but this only exacerbated his
|
| Demise more rapidly
|
| Eventually he could derive pleasure from nothing, the most lurid
|
| Pornography or the most holy scriptures failed to arouse him from his
|
| Stupor, his boredom
|
| Great cities, or the endless beautiful plains stretched out before
|
| His jaded gaze and disappeared into the nothingness of his feeling |