A city sprang up within the wrinkles of my hand
The noises of the tires on wet night pavements
Reminds me of the hisses of an album not a disc
And as the headlights come upon your face
Within another passing car,
they always reflect the tears.
It is all imaginary, it is just the sound I guess
I always wonder what it was
that made them so sad
even though I never really saw them,
as they sadly drove their cars
through the slickened streets within the city in the wrinkles of my hand
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