Possessions never meant anything to me (I'm not crazy). Well that's not true: I've got a bed and a guitar and a dog named Bob who pisses on my floor. That's right; I've got a floor. So what? I've got pockets full of kleenex and lint and holes where everything important to me just seems to fall right down my leg and onto the floor (my closest friend: linoleum). Linoleum supports my head, and gives me something to believe. That's me on the beachside combing the sand, metal meter in my hand, sporting a pocketful of change. That's me on the street with a violin under my chin, playing with a grin, singing gibberish. That's me in the back of the bus. That's me in the cell. That's me inside your head.
