An ego is a comet burning up inside my atmosphere,
So if I ever buy a fucking chandelier, take me back a year -
To coffeehouses in the autumn with the falling leaves,
To cottonmouth up in the morning when I yawn from sleep,
To background jazz and tonals from the saxophone,
Cut the vocals but leave the rest of the act alone,
To trees in full bloom that I've barely even ever seen,
Eternally convinced they're only semi-evergreen,
To all the melodies spilling out so cleanly as,
I look around at a sea of woolen beanie hats,
The only kid who's not colour matched with the foliage,
The only kid who's so unattached that he notices,
To that kid on the benches, sitting, scribbling sketches,
To the rhythm of set lists on a ritalin head trip,
To that girl in the booth, who brought a pile of cards,
No concern, wouldn't move, getting snide remarks,
To that smell as the coffee's wafting across the room,
Not being bothered and nodding off from the solitude.