There can’t have been words for it. For anything swirling in our heads. You’re committed because you have commitments. Shapes and sounds, instead and yes, like a cliché of a hallucination or the intoxication of multi-sensory experiences, but all that I am saying is there were not words, are no words, will be no words, for what’s in my head, either. Shapes timed to my eye contact, Carmine Street, blue half circle, a hand outlined in black chalk, gloves, trees, psithurism. Golden clouds in my chest. Communicating to yourself, not quite talking. Isn’t that what we say? The shape of what time might look like if we stopped playing around it, is a contact lens. I’m committed to finishing my thoughts.

If everyone held hands we’d drown so instead we tread in a different vacuum where we point at each other to push off our mutual polarity and fly. I wish I wish I wish. 

This is a love song for all of the disorder in your mind, friends, friends, friends, family. Your commitments bring me to my knees.