Daniel Guerra

It all surrounds, Texan stars, devils and psychics, floral, statues and skulls. My laptop, my guitar, they can only take so much. What is within the skull is within lighted screens and cream paper. Might it could be within your eyes? Help me get back to plain, crimson walls. I forget how a ceiling fan sounds. The keyboard tapping, the guitar strings, they got to be an old-flavored sound by now. Catch "The Iris Lights," and help me get rid of mine.