no shortage of intent, as far as i can tell, but i remember when i had you writhing in the palm of my hand. now something's wrong. this thing can (right/write) itself. since when did you become the difficult sell? i can call you on the phone. catch you all alone. meet you at the bar. a moment in the car. the slightest glimpse will do as long as it's you. i will be right here when you cry, "someone's always getting uptight. someone leaves a little denied. someone sleeps a little bit restless." but even when we're falling apart you always keep a piece of my heart. someone seems a little too restless. it's all of my concern. i got the discontent. am i brazen? are you broken? are we anything? it's impossible to tell. i'm almost gone. you're a pattern in static. i'm a rattle in the attic. we're a drawing in invisible ink. i will be right here waiting for any sign at all. the winter till the fall, the summer till the spring. i cannot feel a thing, but i am right here, right here if you try. let me have that sinking feeling that i have designed. let me trace my name in cursive up and down your spine.