The Collector

How do you kill the moon?

When it’s over your shoulder shining on you till it’s dead

You drive in your car ever faster

Down ancient roads, fueled by the maps in your head

There’s and old lady, she’s a collector

And the town where she sleeps is her bed

She scoops up some dirt into a plastic bag so she will never forget she was there

Out on the highway there are two men in suits

With bright yellow stars on their chests

There covered in ashes from head to toe this is a memory that she always tried to forget

And all of her friends they’re stored in boxes up on the shelf

And she never really had the chance to tell them that she loved them

Or anything of the sort

I suppose they bent the rules

Buried the lies and painted us fools

So I guess it’s true this town is full of rumors

Steady old man they’ve got no sense of humor.