Imagine if you will. One thousand, thousand birds, Flying above, A deafening cacophony of fluttering wings. Each bird is a thought from your head. And Imagine if you will, You gatta look up, And try and find and grab a thought, So you can tell others what you think.
But all you can manage Is a few feathers. Half words, Fragments, Of what could be a beautifully constructed sentence.
So it doesn't make sense. Not to you, Not to who you're talking to.
Desperatly trying to explain what its like when I talk to people. Its incredibly difficult for me. By the time I actually catch a thought. The conversation has moved on to something else. And its no longer relevant.