I want all my contacts to send texts so I can sync syntax to context completely.
My memory needs all the cache it can catch, and what if they delete me?
Thoughts get forgotten and pencil marks smear. Words that are spoken dissolve.
Ephemereality isn't a problem I know how to solve.
I'd like to skip straight through the streets, but I keep tripping all over the stares.
I'd like to stay cyclically sweet, because nothing compares.
I'd like to stay cynically sweet, because nothing come pairs.
There are dead people everywhere – even here – and I won't even care, if I don't see their face in a mirror.
Trapped in this graphic jam, static as I often am, hardly considering this driving.
But our need for connection's so steep that we can't keep from surviving.
Subscribing to tiny white dots on the ground; barriers that we can't cross.
I'd maybe be warier if we were made more aware of our loss.
I'm alive but I'm blindedly cited by Time as some soon-to-expire decor.
But I kind of don't mind when I'm lying on the dining room floor.
If you're fine with unwinding with wine, why aspire to more?
There are dead people everywhere, even here! I won't even care if I don't see their face in a mirror.
Glasses half-scattered, distorting the gloom; there's just blood where your heart used to be.
But this tomb of a room is 1 3 tick 2 cryptic 4 me.
If we don't write it soon, we'll spell doom "epoch," elliptically.
I'm fine with unwinding with wine time to time, but you've nosebreathed your way through the ears.
We've discussed your fine dining lust; I just find dining austere.
You're closed then you're cloying; it's simply destroying us. Decant see your face through the tears.
The only way I can get you to slur straight is through cheers, as if it's just a race to debase all your hastiest fears.
But you can't displace all the waste of your weightiest years.
There are dead people everywhere – and I don't even care.
I want all my contacts to send texts so I can sync syntax to context succinctly.