and to the west, scraped shins
a song or two about a broken heart inevitably and I push push push
this thing I can't touch about face
about time this terrible reason
in the face of it all this disarticulated greed
and the orifices all around all around
comme ça but I'm just not sure
and this repeats and this repeats because it's late
(when will I get tired of this? soon soon)
because it's late
I am inexplicably sad, or explicably everything
memory does not make sense, memory makes memory
it's all a tease and the real moment breaks
the real story of your life a halting narrative, instance / sliced
put back together (uh-oh) this disarticulated absence
in which we collide
