I chose this cinematic hell
However wide or narrow the day feels like being;
And all the while feigning leaving
Cause I know I’ll return very well
In the depths of June when the morning lurches
Into day, and all the wordlessness
Leaks through my fingertips
In quicksilver rivulets searching
The boiler of this house is no more than an attraction
And what does it do? Powers whimsy and pity
And what powers this house? Frigid electricity
Plain old, plain old, and nothing remotely passionate
It’s fake, dark, miserable, whimsical turbulence
And my jealousy stands in the way of anything
And everything done right is just so utterly wrong
Impatience lingers like a wildfire glow in the distance
The phone never rings. Do these hands belong to me?
But worst of all, why won’t they do…Do anything?