[Lyric] Theres a Light That Enters Houses With No Other House in Sight (David Sylvian & Fennesz)

I was having trouble sleeping
I don't know how long I'd been lying there
And listening to the blizzard when I had the most vivid impression
That it was a blizzard in Minneapolis in 1959
And I found this disturbing
I knew it would now have to turn on its lamp, get out of bed, and try to write about me
And of course, no matter what it wrote, I would just sound like something it had made up
But in the end, it decided to stay put, turn over, and keep me to itself
I think that was the right thing to do
After all, it was only a blizzard in Minneapolis in 1959
How are you supposed to describe something like me?
And when you think about it, why should you try?
Why should you even care?

Be it ever so scarred and unstable
The table you write at
Belongs right in front of a mirror
So spoke the battered master,
"To my knowledge, the single other, that magnificent and winged lunatic Rambo ever deigned to admit admiration for, think of it"
At this time, the poet was fortunate to have the use of a table and mirror
Not to mention a room, where he could concentrate
As he occasionally managed to do
In spite of the distractions involved in dealing with some of the semi-literate individuals who then, as now, were known to enter the literary profession
As if for the sole purpose of hounding and tormenting anyone with the poor judgement to show some actual talent for writing
I have a preference for blank walls myself
Though, I certainly never would have said so in his presence
In his presence, I very much doubt I would have been capable of articulating opinions and thoughts on any subject whatsoever
Windows are out, no windows
I have enough trouble with what I can see through the wall
Only a minute ago, I was watching him pass by
And to judge by the look on his face
I am afraid he was going through one of his brief stretches of addresslessness
Caught between the gentle hospitalities of one poetry-loving landlord and the next
The austere amenities of one unflushing toilet of an apartment and another
He was limping slightly
As though he had on two left shoes
Finally stopping to rest, on the vacant apartment
It wasn't raining that hard
Vomiting, tactfully, first in some bushes nearby
Probably nothing, a touch of opiate withdrawal
There'd been no indication of alcoholic seizure
And as it was relatively unlikely that food had been ingested in a while, he made no mess to speak of
A mere ounce or so of some sort of green liquid
Which blended in well with that damp and verdant scene
As he did not appear to be carrying a notebook
Thankfully, there would be no need to make use of his aching knees
Which had so often served quite nicely as a desk
That allowed him to hunch his thin shoulders and slowly
Bend forward to shield his page
From the various forms of precipitation
So prevalent in his part of the world
Evidently, he'd misplaced his pen as sometimes happened
So his left hand would not be required to take the place of stationary
He was spared, as well, the possibility of injuring himself as he had once, unfortunately
During a mild and near-unprecedented instance of self-mutilation
Well... there had no more than a few shallow puncture wounds
Resulting from the understandable frustration that might accompany being reduced to recording on his own flesh
With a few lines of genuine poetry ever written
He remained on his bench for an immaculately, inconspicuous, and legal length of time
His somewhat deranged head on the roof he'd been enjoying for a while yet
His only mirror a shocking but swiftly curtailed couple seconds of eye contact with an elderly woman
Who happened to turn to him in passing
Her crumpled, thrown-away face
Putting up his collar, he slowly got to his feet, staggering in a manner that was practically unnoticeable
And doing a marvelous impression of somebody not crushed by dread as he moved on
Soon lost from sight in the rain
Which was not really falling that much harder
When I am done puking, I get up from the floor, wash my face, and
Slowly resuming an erect stance, automatically look in the mirror
Well, in the first place it isn't a mirror anymore but a window
And on the other side of the window, about ready to poke its head in, stands an enormous white horse
Very gaunt, its gaze electric blue, the color of desert skies shining through the eye sockets of a skull
Now, we are apparently going to get a sort of Mickey Mouse with bloody teeth
So, things do not appear to be headed in an especially auspicious direction
And it is with some discouragement that I exit the bathroom and walk down the hall toward the living room
Where, after a journey of several years, I switch on the TV with the idea of checking out the action on CNN
It's not long before I discover that it is possible to weep from sheer astonishment and rage
I never knew that
The stained glass gold light of the end of September falls through the window
Creating the impression of a staircase
A steep and absurdly inviting one
All at once, I am vividly aware of what this room is going to look like when I am no longer alive
When I am no longer alive
When I am no longer alive
When I am...