Sometimes nothing is right. you're sick and I'm tired,
and it's cold outside and my fingertips are blue.
Sometimes neither of us has a good idea,
and the sky really is falling again.
Or it already fell, and now we just pick it up,
then string it to the rafters, just like last time.
Now, your cowlick is sleepy; but my walrus is not.
And I just wish these fucking
threads would stop snapping.
