It's the taste in my mouth when I'm comatose,
the smell of the carpet when I'm coming to.
It's biting a busted lip, a deviant's aim, it's forcing pain,
It's filling the cave where there is usually nothing.
Usually nothing is better than being awake;
it makes me think of my own interchange,
the pieces of me that are misfiring,
Silence til I'm driving and I can't see straight.
This migraine, I feel machinery shake,
a breakneck pace to a brake,
and I've reached the exit, I'm at the exit.
It's so quiet so I shut up, but when I talk
it's like not even I can hear me.

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN