i can hear it in the tone from the voice through the wall, my ghosts are getting louder. and in another year's time maybe i can get along and play nice for the camera. my days are numbered in plates, old outfits on the ground. clutter for my source of shelter. the simple life and lies and the fates in the wake of our new culture.
don't get me started on things i'll never know about. i could've been a writer. i could've been a dancer. i could've been your mother. i don't know the shape it takes and i don't care. the less i know the better.
you make a shape with your hands like the head of a dog on the wall and you speak the same language as me but we'll never say a word to each other. we move aside the waste to the wayside as always in our best interest. there's something blocking the sun and we don't mind. yeah, we got presents for christmas.