I have no tongue left. Every speech I have stored involves crystal pianos and tinseltown lights. Shadows of yourself. Hiding when I wake up aching. Heading for the fountain in the back. Remembering lines from Frog and Toad. Tasting plums on my lips. Turning purple wrappers blue with neglect. Refusing to sweat.

You: in some studio, somewhere, listening to the same things over and over until they fasten themselves tight to your ears like tinnitus. Waiting for a casual conversaion. Old friends. Acquaintances. Slowly swivel around in your chair and face a different direction. Smoke a cigarette. Suck on it with a peturbed thought. I wonder whatever happened to...

It's like leaving the little umbrella in your liquor glass for someone else to find.