The newspapers that I've kept as monuments are gathering dust on this floor. These walls are too think for pushpins. They will never be seen again.
I hope they come back to me, all those beautiful things, even though I'll just throw them away. I'm finding I'll never fall into the place I belong.
This lack of motivation: I can't even find a will to pick up the phone. I know it's hard to move on, but one day I know I will find a home.
I'm shaking the southland hoping to rearrange the statelines. I'm spending time living under these trees. No room for the sun to shine through. Making mountains on the window sill. I still act surprise when everything falls apart.
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