it fell open and now we are fingers stumbling along ivory keys when it was still okay for them to be ivory. we are the slowest song we have ever known when the sky can do nothing short of cry all over our small little world.
you and i we were completely inside of a low ceiling, hard floor life that kept shrinking onto our big heads and no one can stand that much pressure for long so we left for some stupid tree or some other piece of universe that no one ever seems to feel enough. we laughed at the way humans are often so full of whimsy, how we are, now, laying on cold wet earth. we do not care when our clothes cling to our soaked raisin bodies, because it isn't low ceiling, hard floor life.
"it's like this", you said, "it's like in that book about the kid with his dog, you know the one i'm talkin' about?" of course i did. "no, i don't think so..." "well it's like this, see, the kid.. he had this dog, and he loved it and he had to kill it, do you know what i'm saying? well it doesn't matter. all i'm saying is this.. you can't love anything because when you really do some idiots gonna make you shoot it anyway probly."
it is like a little song about rain drops falling on heads while the sun sets the moon is hiding in some pieces of cloud that broke off the huge cloud that all the little clouds come from. and anyway we are tired so we lay there and pretend that the floor is soft the ceiling is gone and that our wrinkled bodies are baby grapes.
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