All night restaurant, Norh Kildonan. Luke warm coffee tastes
like soap. I trace you outline in spilled sugar, killing time and
killing hope. This brand new strip mall chews on farmland as
we fish for someone to blame. But we communicate in
questions, and all our answers sound the same. Under
sputtering flourescents, after re-fills are re-filled. Negotiations
at a stand-still, spoon and rolling saucer stilled. If you ask
how I got so bitter, I'll ask how you got so vain. And all our
questions blur together. The answers always sound the same.
We can't look at one another. I'll say something thoughtful
soon, but I can't listen to the quiet so I hum this mindless
tune I stole from some dumb country-rock star. I don't even
know his name. It's like my stupid little questions: the
answers always sound the same. Tell me why we sound so
lame. Why we communicate in questions and all our answers
sound the same.