Some kinda lucky flux or cure for pain in the well-lit smile he flashes right after
some kinda argument about weather this is a fetish or the real thing
polishes the scene with bootleg meaning and I stand about to ask a question, maybe I'm not shy anymore, shivering from the boredom of anyone else's idea of a good what rhymes with maybe/lately I'll say anything to tease a streak of white out of the black ghosts and stage, and get it into a history book, which we now call a future book and we don't mean we're property, or props even, just from the future, here to show for/ It's strange that it can take so long to climb some steps you built of song, to find and let the ridges assign us their greathearted safety, one by one, getting back to the beginning in a world where the clapping comes first like a compulsion when we walk in, and then everyone waits in silence to find out why
