sickness grabs me by the handnand the cramp in my left leg warns menthat if the nails of my hands are paintednwith some blue polish from i don't know wherenthere is probably a lot of things that i should remembernor maybe not after allnand between the cramp in the morning and the fallingnthere is no spacenand it is filled up with nightmares and they're all about younand they're all about younand an L-train full of hipsters is rushing towards menand between the tight jeans and the second-hand scarvesnand every baseball hatnthere is a way to bump into younand if they play my songs in the coffee storenafter the e-mail and the laundry, they would be all about younthey would be all about you