Lyrics:

There’s frost on the glass.
I’m lagging behind,
From where I do not know.
Soil sticks to my soles.

All I know is something is up
—Another trifle
Or my time on earth?
The mucus in the bowl,
Discomfort dismissed.
Purpotedly, I’d be missed,
But I felt just like mist.
I hadn’t pissed it away
Like many of my peers,
But I felt like I had missed,
But I feel like I miss.

The vacant shipping depots,
Cardboard boxes and lives
Under white light.
Majestic for me.
I’d been a tourist… in my own body.

It had sufficed to be cognisant,
To read Said in the weeds,
To dream away of a filled ream,
To say thanks and do the odd job,
To not see that two untouched decades
Were nothing more than a miracle
—That I could soon be plucked from this fugue
And spaghettified in another black hole.

It was when those metal butterflies started bursting from my stomach,
And I realised I’d always been afraid of flying,
When the sinkhole was addressed with a feast
And daily sacrifices of the sun and moon,
Or when I returned, and we all went inside,
And despite being spared everything, thinking it was logical to end it all,
That I saw I should never keep a bargepole
Between me and death
Because I only was lending the magma gondolier a hand.

This—the naive sound, the nascent words, the disclosed dialectic—
Is survival, something I’ll forever be thankful to afford.
But rest assured, I shall pay the loan each day,
Each day.
Thank you so much.