Witching hour

My throat is sore from all the screaming in my head.
And all the salt on my tongue is stinging my eyes.
Dammit, I do this everytime.
I'm reading holes in everything, these textbooks and damn papers.
Admist all this, I sometimes wonder if he knows me more than I do.
Why am I always the last to know?

I'm going for a walk because I love this air
This smell, the witching hour.
Now come, hold my hand
and chill me to the bone.