Alive, not really- as ARt-Tist grabs the pack of cigs loads one to the mouth , t-shirt filled with a lifetime of memories the smell wafts up. Visions and thoughts clouded and boggy. Messes, yes messes, "where's the fricken lighter" falling to the center of the studio lost in dreams of of shows gone by my hands show the time in the wrinkles they lay. Canvases everywhere the story lays out,
It is a Whiter Shade of Pale, lights the cigarette watching the smoke dance against the shadow of the street lamp.
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