What's really the cause of its arrival:
"it"'s questions.
"I"'m music.
I'm the part where words are said
that's to say not sung.
The context of my head's no more object than thought.
We'll take a while to talk about it.
Assuming "it", "talk", and "we" are any realer than the words within them.
If not then flesh, now you've eaten.
This is where it becomes convoluted.

uuuuhhhh

Is its own stanza
this "uuuuhhhh"'s in your voice in your head now.
In or outside,
your heads still a part of it strange enough.
Out or inside,
my hands still a part of it strange enough.
strange enough
my hands outside or in "it".
"it"'s been explained.

I want "you" to picture"me" holding a rock to the sun
asking why neither are thirsty.
"you" want "me" to be a rock in a picture of the sun,
"you" don't need to ask to be thirsty,
"i"m niether.

Water and a handful of pennies
makes a mouthful for a moment.
Last nights moment's a *** of coffee in my mouth,
told to self I really was trying to sleep.

How many "you"s in this poem's really "you" "you"'ve asked.
I'll say so much as to know the answer's the sun,
that said that still I'm not sure.
How many "I"'s in this poem's really "I" "I"'ve asked.
You'll see so much as to guess the answers: under pain of death.
That's your words, my head.

Set your things on top of me,
I'm auditioning for the part of a table made from a different table .
I've played the part of the one who built it.
Neither move.
Lines please.