there are nights when your brain is static
And the only words you can mutter are self pitying
And human connection feels lost
The station of your words is weak
And you want to curl up and become antic like the records you love so much
Like the typewriter you value for print
But can no longer use
Until you collect dust in your lungs
Until your ribs are rusted
Until you are fossil fuel
Until you become recycled paper
In someone's printer