hey there old man.
here's to you and your synthetic brushes. and your oily cheeks. and your fedoras. and your overalls and painters' caps. here's to the old men i see at gas stations who ring a bell and who if i told them what was i thinkin' - bout who they remind me of ... well, we know how that would go down.
so here's to no other, then. that's how it should be anyway. there's wine in the ground for you. and water in my lungs, where i drown when i love you.
every time i love you.