WEBVTT

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"The eye stretches
to the horizon

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and then must continue up.

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Anything past the
horizon is invisible,

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it can only be imagined.

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You want to see the future
but you only see the sky.

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Fluffy clouds.

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Look-- white fluffy clouds.

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Looking back is easy for a
while and then looking back it's

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murky.

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There's the road, and
there is the story

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of where the road goes,
which is only a story,

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and then there is
more road, the roar

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of the freeway, the roar of
the crowd, the roar of the city

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sheening across the city.

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There should be a place.

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At the rest stop, in the
restaurant, the overpass,

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the water's edge--

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there should be a place where
we are more than just narrative.

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He was not dead
yet, not exactly--

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parts of him were dead
already, certainly

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other parts were only
waiting for something

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to happen, something grand,
but it isn't always about me,

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he keeps saying
though he's talking

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about the only heart he knows.

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Boys on the bed,
strange sheets, the way

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a phone rings in the
other room like that,

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the way it has a brain ringing.

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Inside his head a little music,
inside his head a little pop.

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What he remembers
doesn't make any sense.

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What he remembers has nothing
to do with us or does it?

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All this circling around
inside the darkened rooms,

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inside those dreams of
ours that never get used.

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He was not dead
yet, still though--

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it isn't about him.

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Can't articulate what
it is he feels or needs,

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doesn't know which
parts to move or which

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ones stack on top of
all the other ones,

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but still we wanted
the antidote,

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the answer to the mystery,
the problem solved.

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All of us trying to
find our way in again,

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trying to bash in his
head to get to the candy.

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The small dark rooms inside our
heads still dark, still small.

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Sheets over chairs, bulbs blown,
the windows now open, now shut.

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He could build a city.

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Has a certain capacity.

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There's a niche in his chest
where heart would fit perfectly

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and he thinks if he could
just maneuver one into place--

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well then, game over."

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