Everybodys Got Their Own Situation And Their

If Nobody Speaks Of Remarkable Things, How Can They Be Called Remarkable?

I Wonder How Many Ways There Are For A Mother To Produce That Wreckage In Her Own Daughter, And My Muscles Tense As I Think Of Them.

If You Listen, You Can Hear It. The City, It Sings. If You Stand Quietly, At The Foot Of A Garden, In The Middle Of The Street, On The Roof Of A House. It's Clearest At Night, When The Sound Cuts More Sharply Across The Surface Of Things, When The Song Reaches Out To A Place Inside You. It's A Wordless Song, For The Most, But It's A Song All The Same, And Nobody Hearing It Could Doubt What It Sings. And The Song Sings The Loudest When You Pick Out Each Note.

She Wonders If You Can Feel Nostalgic For Something Before It's In The Past, She Wonders If Perhaps Her Vocabulary Is Too Small Or If Her Chemical Intake Has Corroded It And The Music Goes Doowoah Doowoah.

It Is Something I Recognise In Myself. I Do Eavesdrop. I Do People-watch, A Lot.