If the death of a writer brings life in his readers
Then what does that mean that we´re still breathin´

All of us have learned our words
Some of us have less and some have more but
They´re all equally capable of ruining things for
A simple kiss to an apology
To a I miss a eulogy and
It all depends how you tap those typing keys

Like a dusty old sack under that magazine rack
We´re just a floor full of issues
With our burdens printed on our backs

One time in Texas as I browsed those endless aisles
And I thumbed through those volumes
And sifted through those piles
I wondered if they could go back in time
Would they twist the plot and move a lot and
Are they haunted by their reprints late at night
And I thought about my own tales
And how often the hero failed and
Should I do some revising of my own

A warped piece of wax on that gramophone mat we just
Spin and spin and spin as our pasts
Keep on playing back

Be careful what you wish for