Courtesy.

We've got Cohen's quiet voice eagering us on and my stained sleeves have crumbs stitched wickedly from the lamp. If the song were to switch, it would be injustice to the mood right now. This mood is a cohort of submissions, each broken into little boxes. These boxes contain bearings from different days on which it felt similar. And to be able to dig into what those boxes contain, is the summation of our attachment. How the heart works and how these fingers fiddle, however nonchalantly, brings the memories tumbling down. Each beat renders obsolete and every touch retracts, extracting that unharmed bone. It toys with all the wrong muscles and suffocates our cache of unspoken needs. It asphyxiates me, strangles the stretch. For one should have said those things back then itself, instead of dragging all drab and drizzle. Those were salad days. An attempt to erase everything that happened the previous days. As we'd build, build, break - and soldier on again. For within those submissive tirades and sentences that were juxtaposed, the comparisons were nixed. Those boxes, soiled with gratitude and efforts of discourse, were misplaced. We'd strayed at sea, rapt and neglected in selfish interest. Who can be blamed? Its what happens as we think of then, all rinsed and tuned out - more to others needs than to impressions themselves. How we bunker ammunition at disparaged reflection and then we piece all our whims in rhapsody itself. You're no stranger to our intention, neither one to scrape on worried nerves. You are however wanted, to help me cast a debt furnished from long ago. Because madness has waned and my scheme's dilapidated by the particles from the box. They too've been wrung out and besmeared by jejune fancies we partook on. Its like the whole circus wound along, and we didn't have the decency or courage to settle our receipts. But don't think I'm parlancing an overreaction, I'm merely suggesting we may've obliged and made the lot of them win. Then those boxes, of ambition and vehemence, could have died a natural death. We're unsure of how we need each other today and in a way, that is our uncelebrated victory. Our triumph makes atrophy any sense of modern compassion. You far away, well settled, can afford an immaculate stride while I only coffee and pine for how things should have been. I'm helpless still, you know - forging on those crumbs, stitched perpendicularly on my unclean sleeves.