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strange times these events hold:
we draw sharp lines with harsh words.
we speak similar language, but there’s gaps in the information.
you want me out of my skull. i wouldn’t know about that.
it’s never quite in control. it always finds a way out.
when no one seems to have heard what you’re not talking about,
and we tell different stories.

recount. that’s the sound of:
maybe the last few years or a lost love.
we speak repetitive phrases in these same old familiar ways.
we never look at the world through quite the same set of eyes.
we shift and crumble and crawl and no one’s getting it right,
and who could say who they are with words so poorly defined?
and we tell different stories.

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