Our discontent is perfect
It fits like a round tongue in a square hole
Can’t french kiss a screen,
Can’t heal in a sick world.
We’re sure what swells in our throats
Is greater than the roar of the winds
More complicated than gravel
More pristine than a dialtone
More natural than extinction
More profound than boredom.
There’s something more than everything
And we’ll put it in a frame.
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