“Still, who knows where the soul goes . . . after the light switch is turned off, who knows?”
I came to my senses with a pencil in my hand
And a piece of paper in front of me.
To the years
Before the pencil, O, I was the resurrection.
“Still, who knows where the soul goes . . . after the light switch is turned off, who knows?”
I came to my senses with a pencil in my hand
And a piece of paper in front of me.
To the years
Before the pencil, O, I was the resurrection.