We are made of questions we know better than to ask.
We are made of questions we know better than to ask. We do not want the last echoing word, wood stove smoldering too hot through the night, we stay silent to avoid the echo of our own voices. We wish we had not been raised to run the numbers this way, quantity not quality, unable to take you seriously when you red-eye depart and say, "
There are some words we simply do not hear the way they are meant. They come out distorted, as though we invented them for ourselves while you climb stars in a jet with little televisions in the back of every seat, 30,000 feet of limbo overhead.