I want to multitrack playback, nudge the peaks with fingertips with continuous harmony in amplification. Your little spiral riffin sounds like files unwriting themselves in so many lines of code further faster than me.
Boy boy boys in the band, I could make front row every time. With your failing watch, with your great belts of flags, strode over the heads of us all. This is still the year kissed in by Kodak light and you could make something of it yet.
Do the slow walk deep in the grass, deep in your weekend alone. I can't share it, can't sing it, can't bury it and can't break it. It's such a steep walk, down into sinking ground, and every flat foot feels like lurching forward with your elbows chained behind.
Peace is built in the beams, but if I can hear all your voices through the wall, I'm papering myself into mine. "Le sens que Baudliere décrit — peut-être vous êtes trop jeunes ou trop heuruex pour comprendre," she says, all the in the best, but fuck if l'ennui is the best I can do. Mock me out. Do better or don't care.
Comfort food, what we ate when we were young and thin, before we understood the politics of it. This isn't an obesity epidemic, isn't Internet culture, isn't disorders of self-regulation (acronym, here's lookin' at you). This is social infantilism on the mass scale, we the cadre of play-group mothers slipping over the edge of the next generation. If I'm oatmeal and strawberries, they're going to be chocolate granola-oat bars and strawberry-flavored Pop-Tarts.
"Egoism is art," I'm bluffing. Think it through and compose, abandon it for lack of depth, describe the sensation because there aren't the words. Everything's different now, great until it isn't. I avoid writing to avoid the truth, and do conspiracy theorists believe themselves? Not what they say, I mean; do they really truly believe they themselves are real?