Thinking of nothing

Said old boy you got your leash around his coat

While im on tiger lily

You used to not hesitate to jump into the clear

I was thinking about the time we spent that year

But now I got a kitchen throat

Spending too much time in the smoke, smoke, smoke, smoke

A kitchen throat,

Working too hard too never get my vote vote vote vote

A patient tongue,

But it leaves the shop burned burned burned

A patient tongue

Now im about go get on all out before she comes, she comes, she comes

Note to Self: Always Bring a Camera With You

I was walking beside the railway and it hit me. About 100 meters was a pile of things, its purpose unbelievable to my imagination. I walked towards, tranfixed on it. Is there a men there, a stranger made of blankets? I gripped my house keys between my fingers. Under an archway and beside a yard of old scaffoldings was his bungalow. A graffiti painted concret slab was behind his home. Chairs, a coffee table covered by cloth. Books neatly organized and wicker baskets filled with precious things. Miniature stuffed animals. A horse. A beanie baby. I turn around petrified he has returned but it was a one car train slowly passing by. The car has just three passengers seated by the window. We make eye contact. He has created a master bedrom with pieces of felt tied to wooden pegs. Standing about two feet high. Around it is stacked with fur coats, hoodies, flannel blankets. Two pillows on each side, a mirror placed above. A picture of Virgin Mary and her child. It's as if he is separated himself into his own realm, separated from the life outside to the comforts of his little world. Buckets filled with soap. Toothbrushes. Plates in a dry rack. Gas canisters. Sustainable. A carpeted floor. A rock barrier dividing the dimensions of his home from the outside. I do not dare enter his home but I am mystified.