A troubador with a toy guitar sits gazing at a far off star. He wonders when the words will come. He wants to let the feelings run. The days of youth are gone. The working days are through. He sits at home all day long with little or nothing to do. Age is cast aside like dried grass burnt by the sun. Clawed hands loose their grip. And memories from the mind slip. I am done. I am done.
Gray Dourman
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