March
19 April 2008
<p align="left" style="margin: 0px;">Through early morning fog I see visions of the things to beThe pains that are withheld for me I realize and I can see . . .That suicide is painless it brings
Det kallas himlen och jaghar aldrig varit där Men när jag ser på alla stjärnor överhimlenså önskar jag att du var härDu var så poetiskoch nu går d
Can you hear him whistling, a little tuneIt’s about him trying to catch the moonHe’s waiting for his father, he’ll be coming home soon He’s waiting for his moth
Got a picture of your houseAnd you're standing by the doorIt's black and white and fadedAnd it's looking pretty wornSee the factory that I workedSilhouetted in the backThe memories are graybut man the
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