Why don’t you be the artist And make me out of clay? Oh, why don’t you be the writer And decide the words I say? Images. A bus stop. A street light. Flashing strobe-like apparatus. Sentinel being watching for eternity. A smile. A laugh. A crack of thunder and the blur of electric branches reaching down like the hand of a god long forgotten by us. I know there were days I forgot to say I love you. And I spaced out the days where I paid compliments. A balcony overlooking the moss sea of a forest greenery. I tried to figure shit out in the past, and I tried to keep it to myself. And maybe that’s my fault. And maybe it’s no…