tired faces from wasted placesnriding under avenuesnon the edge of drunken reasonnwith a paycheck and some foodnnstaring into sunken ships and ghost townsnin empty packs of cigarettes i found on the groundnand the quiet night, shifts like winter's wild windsnand condemns my eyes from moving upnnin the still of the nightnabandoned logic with lightnwell listen flakesnthings are worsenas the ghosts of the city streetnnthere's a silent scene of shadows that dance in the lightna cinema screen of manhattannin the scene of the nightnover the sewer and under the trees and into my pockets for something to breathe and thensmoke always looks so good in the coldnnin the still of the nightnabandon logic with lightnwell listen flakesnyeah things are worsenas the ghosts of the city streetnnthe night has descended and has drownednthe shivering sunlight out with quiet soundsnof crackling earth,nhas come up through the parknon a quiet quest for reason in the dark