you lost me at your signature, but i'm not sure it matters. the fault is mine, an admission after which you decide you'll relent and actually let me come back to life (if just for a bit), digging for some understanding of the nothingness, obliterating silence echoing throughout, from one extremity to another, you're all but forgotten except when the poetry of the moment demands you back onstage, crooning some sick twisted blues that touches upon things incognizant, your tongue a shudder and a gasp for specificity, something to call your own without having to worry it will one day flee in utter horror of all that you've buried beneath the surface, replacing the voices that come out when sleep is suspended just above your reach, a tantalizing promise for a body complete and the eventual settling for a half-assed instead. what's it matter, if in the end you still can't bring yourself to dance?