Lyrics
the lairs of veterans erupt everywhere, consistently adorned with smoke & musk & lamina panels & grotty rugs, karakelas. comparadors are lean-numbered elevators and language, always/only language/languish. a threadbare trudge up five flights in this old den, a hundred ghosts urge us on, sticking around. a dead bare grudge alights these nights, the night grows dim, a hundred ghosts urge us on, sticking around for a while. its tears and awful sobs, unheard by us or anyone since 1945.