The old tattoo shop

In a tattoo shop, selling old tattoos, there’s a businessman who has lost his clue. He’s set up shop in a town with a forgotten name.

And in this town, in a bar across the street, you meet another man who drinks his whiskey neat. He sidles up to you with a tall tale to tell.

In the West of town, on an Eastern street, there’s a starving man who doesn’t need to eat. And he’d share his thoughts, but that man’s lost his mind.

All these men have a lot in common. They all live in a town that time’s forgotten. And everyday they’re forgotten a little more.

Everyday, time ticks away. Black ink dries and the barflies sway. And hungry men go more and more insane.

Everyday, you grow to realise, that everything you once despised, has shaped you like a bend in a flowing stream.

And all these men you recognise. They stand reflected before your eyes, every morning when you wake from sleep.

The old tattoos. The forgotten news. Hunger that burns and busted shoes from miles and miles of strife and effort and stress

Parts of you that once were there. Parts of you that you never shared. Parts of you that you had hoped were dead.

They’re back in town. The town with no name. You weren’t looking, but they still came, to that Eastern street in the Western part of town.