On shifting frequencies.

There teeth are coins for passage and your tongue is taken as a savoury.

You’re both silent until he says, I feel stupid and contagious.

A few more plays and I’m pretty sure we accomplish a mind transferral, or a body swap.

Even the most delicate goats gnaw metal with bright eyes.

It was shaping up to be a Paul spring—quixotically homicidal; cottagecore insanity.

He’s dreaming of beating his manager up and walking out with cash in his hands. A spaceship has to be bought, after all.

On legacy (and saying goodbye to Steve Albini).

The moon is here somewhere, we think (or maybe we say it out loud). We cut our fingers searching. 

How long now have I kept you here – when did it become me keeping you?

Turning the crusty old pool rule into a surf-guitar song.

You were still crying while we joined the crimson smear of traffic. My hands felt raw from the applause.

I walked up behind you in the crowd and, in your ear, like a heartbeat, spilled everything out.

Dream big, fail. Dream big, fail again and again and again. Then stop dreaming. 

On—nothing?

When Maria was around, she stood out and everyone else was in soft focus.

Blank space, walls stripped bare, shelves removed, drawers emptied.

I’ve been singing it at least once a day for the past eleven and a half years.

"the wishbone is still there, at the corner of my window rampart against the dust"

There is nothing more  terrible than when hope itself becomes a dangerous shard, emitting its own embarrassing  light.