In a small town on the edge of nothing
My head became a map that caught on fire
All the names of the locations were my moments
It never rains when your head is a burning map

Racoons and opossums gathered at the windows
They chirped and growled like ghosts of the night
Upstairs a small girl dreamed she was an ancient tree
The roads made sparks come out of my bones

The map finished burning but my head was a toad
He croaked like zen busted by some rotten cop
Girls and ashes. Wings and functions.
I live now in a capsule at the edge of a secret book.