If each tear that fell carried a message in the centre, what would it contain?
Hammer hard on the darker notes. They are woody and deep, such rich noise. I've heard the piano played so intimately, but never for me. I do not believe it could be for someone else when played with such passion. It is a secret shared between the player and the keys. They tell of great stories and terrible deeds. The background of a thousand lives, played out in the concert hall. A singer is just a translator, stepping in to provide a version of words that could only scratch the surface of emotion that is drummed by slender fingers. Creation.
"It's okay to not be okay." They'll still fix you up for home.
The jocoserious attitude you take makes life confusing for those that are barely taking their first steps off the ladder rungs. Must you be so pious.
Let us stray from the fires which burn and instead bask in the smoke above. Too often burning passion is all part of the conversation when really it's an emotion that has a sporadic existence. Who needs a spark, when there is opportunity to look instead at how the fog in the air twists into shapes of beings. Mocking the future as it does so, may it also offer some insight. For hundreds of years many look to find out their futures but this curiosity dies as quickly as the answer is found. Fortune tellers must remain anonymous when giving their news, that way they may hide away as easily as they were found. Fuck the cookies which talk of wisdom, it's nothing more than typewriter gibberish.
So many back words are said before and during the heat of the moment. But you're so forgetful of them in the aftermath. Please don't forget what was said, if you do, there will never be any change - because you thrive on a future being unpredictable (make it so). When it is hard to know where to begin the cards offer titles that give subplot to the conversation. Fall in and out of denotation or subliminal desire. That message you have to accept: we may just never know.
How lucky the smog is to disappear at will. You should wish to spread so thin so as not to really be. Perennial translucency. It is the face you cannot really remember but left bitter song in your mouth that has achieved this entirely. In spite of this, I have learnt that it does not matter where you leave to, the thoughts are just the same. Nor does it matter how well you tidy your life, play the games or partake in all the day's activities. That presentation of a nicer version of what you are, it won't work - there are many fixed ideas. I wonder if we passed the tipping point before we even knew where and what it was. Maybe it has always been too late.
We have to say those painful messages. We have to talk, before you wake up different again.