I'd sing you anther one, but I owe my soul and have little left to praise you with but me--and that's how we got here, twisted in these worn blue sheets in this shadowed, familiar room. The candle burns, cloying incense penetrates the smell of two humans in lust--I'd sing you a new song, but you've probably heard it all before--and the window facing Eight Mile cries a wrenching blues for us tonight, enough to make us sound like animals struggling in twisted, dirty sheets, stifled under it's low sultry moan. I'd sing you one more, but I have no soul left to make it ring true. The rush of engines roaring in great swells of bass and a mechanical rumble. A gunshot rings out, followed by three more--desperation to kill echoing in the reports. Tonight, nobody speaks another word. Tonight, the Baseline will provide a rhythm that tells us we are still alive through the crush of humanity loving and dying around us. The city has spared us tonight; let it mutter and sigh, as we roll over and down into the shadows of familiarity, burning our last love low, before our skin and flesh ignites with their gritty midnight song.