lyric in which you begin to confuse who you are for who strangers appear to be
The brain snap and there slip they memory
It crack to contusion. Or, detailed,
clawfoot bathtub and you (me, you)
fore and aft across they strange pink tile.
Night yes, but night a poor technique for measuring yr life.
Keep they charade up. No we
not in our, yr, or my sleep (and so on,
in that order). You knows yr shirt
Not much else worth dwelling abouts. We all labyrinth
with they bastard child, they minotaur
A thread caught in yr gums, dangle outs
But I ain't no one save the person who once wrote
I created a memory from your memories and wrote of them as if they were real.
and the person who read it. And for all this,
we real (for this, we) sorry.
1996 © 2011