Still. We are. Outside town.

Dense as a horse mane is:

rain in our eyes. And hills.

We have passed the suburb.

Now we are out of town,

which is there but not for us.

Stepmother not mother.

Nowhere is lying ahead.

And here is where we fall.

A field with. A fence and.

Brother and sister. Standing.

Life is only a suburb:

so you must build elsewhere.

Ugh, what a lost cause

it is, ladies and gentlemen,

for the whole world is suburb:

Where are the real towns?