There's a ghost roast in the night. Burning blankets taking flight. Phosphorescent; not too bright. I don't know what anyone is doing here. I wanna know, where do we go? Wilted glowing, softly crows sing. I don't know what anyone is doing here, but I'm afraid I'm the only one who cares. 92 and there are sure signs of aging, death is awaiting, look at your hands complacent with what you know. 22 and there are no signs of aging but I've been engaging burning the sheets, watching the ash as it goes. oh no how sad your bones have grown.