silentbob history to the defeated


the weakerthans

There's blood in the sink, and he's plunging his wrists in. A hangover halo is washing away. Mechanic-school dropout stares into the mirror, stands up in his derelict daydreams. Always too tall, always walked around wearing a smile that was never quite sure of itself. Planning a future of failures inflicted in phone calls from strip clubs and bail bonds. Don't give me that look, I looked harder than most did, let details like sharp nails punch holes in my shoes. Soft-traced to frown as I put the receiver down. Where do I go for a pardon? There's a light left on. There's a pace to our direction. There's a movie-still of a heart I'd like to mention. We're listing what's left: a signed Slayer t-shirt, a car up on blocks in his mother's back yard.
what's it to you?
who go