that old town and dull faceless moon. it was written before my time, but to trade these feelings for you...the stain on this heart, rubbed soft to new wounds. it's not your fault, but I would prefer not to spend days in wait of miracles that never came, like words quick to blame. but in the middle, these words will bide my time. my face turned to the sun, you cannot fight. it's all words read by dyslexic hearts. these useless words mark my greatest escape, but would you prefer not to spend days in search of miracles? that sometimes came, and turned me inside out. but in the middle, we're all turned right side in...