I write music in the record store,
I'll use their piano to pen the tune.
They won't find me,
I'm good at hiding,
So someday my record will be sold there.

We kiss in the record store,
To the sound of men making music.
They won't find us,
We're good at quiet love,
So someday we'll kiss to the men playing my record.

Often I'll wake in my slumber,
To a melody seeping through the window.
It's sung by the stars,
They beckon me from my soft bed,
To the chill of night.
I listen, for if I were not to dance to their music,
Their art would be at a waste.

Can you hold my hand so I don't fall?
Even though happiness pays me,
Like she owes me debt,
Sadness still comes a'knocking,
Looking for little bills and floor pennies.
Because I didn't put money,
In his street jam cup.
Though he'd just buy bottles of melancholy with it.

Cold winter's eve,
A peasant man mourns in the cold,
Tears all full, falling to his child's grave.

An angel then descended from the sky,
Remorseful for the great loss of his,
While she wrapped her wings around him,
She sighed and sung.

God made the stars,
He made them so you may see the eyes of your beloved,
When they return to his graceful arms.

West
Avid has a sore eye...
Made from coy strength, as if blessed
The odd image of music, is it a lie?

Beat yourself up, another day
Truth has sat in judgment
Voiced curiosity, has seen the pain
Long talks of soul, have been sent...

Resolute, worth has seen the problem
Vice is a shadow, we fell in love with
But you seem to hate, a golden whim
Has asked, is a lucre's same, a comparison with tender vision's?

Prophecy, about the truth
Venture and generosity
Has stolen the voice of youth
For out the sense of an angel's city...

A new voice has appeared
Simple wishes and the star of liberty
To share a sincere question of a season of fear
Is wisdom dreadful enough, to choose life for seed?

In the vinyl, I see Saturn’s rings.
I see them scattered with snowballs, glowing in the oh-so-distant sunlight—
peacefully floating in their orbits,
occasionally saying hello to one another
with a little bump from time to time.

The music blends as the snowballs form;
bigger, greater snowballs that—
once having consumed all around them—
stay frozen in the pitch-dark nothing…
They remain, mute and humble—observing.
And they never melt away.

I snap back—

—back to the vinyl.
How beautiful it sounds.
Not a single scratch really hurts your ear;
it rather tingles the senses.
The scratch of the needle turns the etches into flowers.
Each note is a cloud, and I am floating on one,
drinking the melody deep into my body,
letting it melt me away into water.
I rain down into my chair, and—

—I snap back.

My body tickles as the speaker shakes the air around me.
It liquefies, turns upside down.
The violin is playing…
Oh no.

I forgot about this part.

I see the mirror in your room,
and in the mirror, I see you.
And next to you, I see me.
I am still inside the drop.
And I know that in a minute, it will burst.
It will run down your cheek.
Any moment now.

I snap back.

I snap.

Why I never heard music so tasteful,
With a woman so graceful.
Falling to sleep in her arms,
As the choirs gently serenade us.
Lip to lip as the lights dim,
Hand on her thigh, just how she likes it.
I'll never be able to love you the same,
Not after feeling you like this.