I dreamt you were a cosmonaut of the space between our chairs. And I was a cartographer of the tangles in your hair.
I sang a song that silence brings the one that everybody knows. Everybody knows the song that silence sings. The song, that silence sings and this is how it goes.
These looms that weave apocryphal they're hanging from a strand. The dark and empty rooms were full of incandescent hands.
An akward pause, a fatal flaw time is a crooked bow, time's a crooked bow In time you need to learn to love the ebb, just like the flow.
Grab hold of your bootstraps and pull like hell. Till gravity feels sorry for you and lets you go. As if you lacked the proper chemcials to know, the way it felt the last time you let yourself fall this low.
Time, oh time, it's a crooked bow, Time's a crooked bow. Time's a crooked bow.
Fifty-five and three days later at the bottom of a gigantic crater An armchair calls to you, An armchair calls to you and it says that:
Someday, we'll get back at them all, with a pox and a pair of plyers. As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl, between the ragweed and barbwire.
Oh no, you didn't write you didn't call It didn't cross your mind at all Through the waves of AM squall, you couldn't feel a thing at all. You're fifty-five and three days too old fifty-five and three days too old
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