when you've lost your colour, and the ships don't seem to come to shore i will call on the headless horseman to follow you home
you don't remind me of wednesdays or saturdays for that matter, but you do make me feel nostalgic of what it feels like to walk in a cold storm
the people march to your drum, like followers of a cult gathering, they drink the punch even, with so much pride but you don't even take notice of all of those bending backwards
jonathan the river styx is meant to be crossed, it is difficult at first i am sure but the ones who cross it become worthy of these hands, healer hands they call it.
i don't want to cause the snow storm, but sometimes you're worthy of all the natural disasters in the world.
yours truly,
your crippled friend,
your deep sea diver,
your rebel without one cause,
amalia
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