That tree morning by morning for a rest lying on the gra**. I spoke and spoke, quiet, lookin' at its navels. Words, fallin' down one by one. Some diary leaves wind up into an orange juice with pulp. I would like to bring back just the better ones. What if I make a juice? One of these days, to let go a piece of me, at least that's better than nothing. I would like to bring back the better ones for a while, to let go a part of me, at least that's better than nothing. Under a flickering shadow I'll choose two or three, no more. Another time and place, another stranger ending. I would like to bring back just the better ones. What if I make a juice? One of these days, to let go a piece of me, at least that's better than nothing. I would like to bring back the better ones for a while, to let go a part of me, at least that's better than nothing.