There Were Things
Ideas of a life worth spent. Everyday another place, every lunch the 8-Track blaring out the window. Everything moves and the best days are lost in the shuffle of places unknown. I have a four song memory. The rhythm of what hits when you skip to the other track. 1 through 4, and I live on the edge of my own memory. What will take me apart, the sound of a tape on fire? I become the end result of the 8-Track machine. As time plays me down I repeat myself, a standard-play type fellow I am. You are arguably the best at what you do, you pull me through. My mind escapes into it, hand held, chunky size. I am glad to have known you, I can hold you in my hand.