Here’s to you, the same chords that I stole from a song that I once heard, the same melody I borrowed from the void. I’d rather observe than structure a narrative. The characters are thin, the plot does not develop, it ends where it begins. It’s on the screen, in paperbacks, in section 8 and cul de sacs, electro haikus and drunk sonnets are moving me along. You cut my hair, you left red ink everywherе. Do my hands tell a story? Is it boring? What I’d give to force your sigh, what I’d givе to see you cry, what I’d give for your caress, to see your blue cotton dress balled up on the floor. Certain memories are the problem. Certain drunken lines are the shame. Seven hundred miles and four years I can’t fight the flame, it burns. Was I wishing on satellites? Tell me how you’ve been doing that trick. I’m just wishing the flame away. Now I’m wishing the flame away