The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. It's thinking of love.
It's thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall.
I like him and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.