There must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief.
On the night you left I came over
And we peeled the freckles from our shoulders
Our brand new coats so flushed and pink
And I knew your heart I couldn’t win
Cause the seasons change was a conduit
And we left our love in our summer skin
Oh, I just know there is something bigger out there.
I dreamed you were a cosmonaut of the space between our chairs, and I was a cartographer of the tangles in your hair.
The ashtray says you’ve been up all night.
I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.
Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we’re still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It’s all the same impulse. What do we get from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention of any kind we can get? At the very least we want a witness. We can’t stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio winding down.
I get by.
The simplicity of solitude is a hard thing to perfect. Stealing happiness from loneliness is not a simple theft.
The simplicity of solitude is a hard thing to perfect.
Stealing happiness from loneliness is not a simple theft.
I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
For millions of years flowers have been producing thorns. For millions of years sheep have been eating them all the same. And it’s not serious, trying to understand why flowers go to such trouble to produce thorns that are good for nothing? It’s not important, the war between the sheep and the flowers? Suppose I happen to know a unique flower. One that exists nowhere in the world except on my planet. One that a little sheep can wipe out in a single bite one morning just like that. Even without realizing what he’s doing- that isn’t important? If someone loves a flower of which just one example exists among all the millions and millions of stars, that’s enough to make him happy. When he looks up at the stars, he tells himself, my flowers up there somewhere. But, if the sheep eats the flower, then for him it’s as if, suddenly, all the stars went out. And that isn’t important?
You don’t know what it’s like to listen to your fears.