Sit back, no song is written, nothing you thought of yourself. It's just a ghost that came unbidden to this house. This infection gets stronger every year, this seed in the water of your tear, there is no escaping it. This seed in the water of your tear. The way an unborn baby's ear unfolds in your belly, this infection gets stronger every year. This direction of a tear rolling down your cheek, and there is no escaping it. There is no escaping the thing that is making its home in your radio.
Bless this tiny alley; we have fallen, from tall buildings we have fallen through the air into a garden sweetly smelling of the softest sleeping flowers (now they sit under the sidewalk, now they're waiting for the shining of some future sun to show us all that is your beauty and all that brings you pleasure); I could sigh into your hide and say "I hope I'm here forever, but black sheep boy--with your lovers, with your list of favorite pillows, with your list of missing children, with the wall where you drew windows overlooking hidden gardens cut apart by jagged mountains (climbing up into the air and crumbling down into a fountain where the water waits forever, like a quite, distant treasure)--when you rise up to recover, when you leave this tiny alley, when you meet me in the garden with your horns all hung with cedar, every spirit brushing past me brushing past them in the ether screams 'all this is window dressing, all you are is flimsy curtains; watch you flame up with a word from us and don't know that you're burning.'"
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"Another Radio Song."
That song, is perfectly amazing. I can't recall the last time a song has changed my mood so easily.
