Burning, Burning, always Burning.
The water glass sits empty, idle,
Dry as my leathered throat.
Screens and papers engulfed with fired inks
Are as drought before my desire;
Barren to my drive.
There’s no reception left in this feeling.
Change the channel, but they’re all the same:
Alone and no connections.
Six billion souls,
And not one I could understand.