here. in my head

I held your hand at the fair

and even forgot what time it was

and even Thomas Jefferson

wasn’t born in your backyard

like you have said and

maybe I’m just the horizon you run to

when she has left

you and me here

alone on the floor

you’re counting my feathers

as the bells toll

(Music, basically, is like mathematics, you know, and you’re trying to form patterns, patterns that make you understand what is around you, and patterns that help you get through the next day. - Thom Yorke)