I can feel it when I'm talking to you
The worms like factory workers, underground
The planes full of people, pa**ing over birds
Friends kissing each other
Getting into cars and leaving, coming back, always
Even if I were dead, my body a factory for worms to work in
I am practicing to become a payphone
Outdated and full of quarters
Time infinite and nothing, all at once
And I know of nothing more beautiful
But for now, your heart is a 6-year old's birthday party
Your mouth is a bed of flowers, covered in snow