On an old radio
I tune in a good sound
it spins me around
moves me here and there
presses me to the ground
that good sound
that throws us on our backs
a lighter and tobacco
like a drill to the bone
drives me mad in an instant
this pencil knows me
and the box begins to play
on medium-hard graphite
and the trace that follows us
casts a shadow over bright days
for fucked-up people