exhaustion

"Our heads, our hands, our brains, our lungs: they're just machines.
These hearts are all that we've got left, and they don't beat.

Live a little, talk a lot; it's the way this goes.
I've come to fear the little knives beneath their well-pressed clothes.
Their arms are reaching; reach is spreading through the neon glow.
Their mouths are moving, but their voices sound like telephones.
The traffic hums; the traffic grumbles near my old window.
The street lights flicker; glow and hover like suspended snow.
I used to watch the moon retreat and wonder where it goes.
Now I just wonder why my head is overrun with ghosts "
Electric President, Good Morning, Hypocrite.