Eastern Border

Tiny footsteps in a crowded room. Makes no sense to place myself into these shoes. I shuffle endlessly towards the station of doom. Christ I wouldn't take a drink in this place. The toilets are my only friend as they give me room. Crowds of people talking. Like a bed of noise inserted it floats amoeba like to make me feel sleepy. My old retreat.

It's not for the want of trying but socially you can be found dying in this place. The lack of space just is a dream for a relationship attack. But I follow an uneven train track just to get through. You make me sleepy but it could have been love. Though possibilities are ceaseless. I'm almost careless.....love don't work and these people make me feel like an Eastern border. Terminally nervous.

Oh Eastern border. This old disorder. Oh Eastern border. Nervous disorder. Discordant alibis mixed with the feeling that nothing is ever quite there but despite what is said I do care. Almost too much. But why should I when nothing ever seems to work. The nightime lurker in at it for the romantic crime. Oh Eastern border. This old disorder. Oh Eastern border. It must be murder.

If what happens in the end is just some trick then which conman must I tick to get the boxes filled in. And if the girl is standing there vouching for sin then who really is socially clean. What I mean is we're all zombies closing in on what we left behind. That fragmented piece of mind that cannot be found.