I dreamt you were a cosmonaut
of the space between our chairs.
And I was a cartographer
of the tangles in your hair.

I sang a song that silence brings
the one that everybody knows.
Everybody knows the song that silence sings.
The song, that silence sings and this is how it goes.

These looms that weave apocryphal
they’re hanging from a strand.
The dark and empty rooms were full
of incandescent hands.

An akward pause, a fatal flaw
time is a crooked bow, time’s a crooked bow
In time you need to learn to love
the ebb, just like the flow.

Grab hold of your bootstraps
and pull like hell.
Till gravity feels sorry for you
and lets you go.
As if you lacked the proper chemcials
to know, the way it felt the last time you let yourself
fall this low.

Time, oh time, it’s a crooked bow, Time’s a crooked bow.
Time’s a crooked bow.

Fifty-five and three days later
at the bottom of a gigantic crater
An armchair calls to you,
An armchair calls to you and it says that:

Someday, we’ll get back at them all,
with a pox and a pair of plyers.
As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl,
between the ragweed and barbwire.

Oh no, you didn’t write you didn’t call
It didn’t cross your mind at all
Through the waves of AM squall,
you couldn’t feel a thing at all.
You’re fifty-five and three days too old
fifty-five and three days too old

Time…
Time…
Time…