the cure for everything is saltwaterand my voice is choked with pebblesand my veins are thick with inkso i'll bleed out all my lovesongswash them down the kitchen sinkand i'll tell you that i'm leavingand i'll flee this soulless townfor the silent sea is callingand i'm not afraid to drownand i'll search out quiet islandslet the blank horizons bedrench my soul in every oceansink my heart in every sea.
IdiosAt the museum of stupid questions, the curator is hunched down over that one thing you asked that one time when everyone laughed because of course. He lets his fingers hover over the contours of your embarrassment, the yellow light above gentle but sufficient to reveal the delicate crinkles of your desperation to be understood. He wants to tend to your loneliness, to treat it well. Somewhere somebody still believes that a *we* exists, even though the bridges people build keep breaking. Long after you've settled down inside your own cynicism, the curator will be there, hanging the ruins on the wall and worshiping your isolation like a work of art.