Built to Spill "Perfect from now on"

Stupors, Storms, and Irregularity

The sight of those ugly,

tattered blue shades,

more or less blue,

more or less shades,

hanging before me.

While on the other side

a storm ducks and rides

through a cruel wind.

Nothing else moves

on this side of evening,

in this

dull,

feckless,

indifferent

light.

And it is 1:38 a.m.

as I begin to cave in.

The tapestry of swimming plaster

folds in a shadow

while I fire

out of place

a dozen rounds

of lucid dreaming.

And the acid churns

up into my throat.

The rain rises up gradually

and then passes on:

�Too dirty�,

this earth,

and tucks itself away

into far off

pin-pricks in the sky.

And the silence

drops in once more

while the stiff,

callous,

humid air

takes away

the comfort of breathing.

I resent this turn,

the stupor of evening,

castrated activity,

and the biting reluctance

of my will

to give into catastrophe.

The cigarette foams,

the drink

dries out.

And the night,

just like my mind,

dies

unrequited

in it�s savage disapproval.

I saw the contents of your heart...