Tides of the Gilded Harpsichord

The morning tea is brewing in a porcelain skull,

The calendar is empty and the moon is too full.

Purple eyeshadow dusted like lavender ash,

We traded the mirrors for a lightning-flash.

Comfortable sandals stepping out on the dew,

Where the old world ended and the real one grew.

A slice of fresh tomato on a windowsill sill,

While the rest of the planet runs panicked and ill.

{velvet French horn floating in

empty room}

Still twenty-two, still holding the thread,

Still writing the ghosts right out of the bed.

You cut your hair to let the gravity drop,

We built an escalator that doesn't ever stop!

Kathy Bates wild, Stephen King ink,

We're smarter and deeper than they'd ever think.

Let the world keep spinning its meaningless wheel,

We are the architects of what is actually real.

{stuttered clockwork baroque harpsichord} And the tape starts spinning backward— And the

ceiling turns to glass— And we realize that every single storm has

got to pass!

No labels, no masters,

no societal line,

Just the estrogen river and the velvet-pink wine.

Tara and Quinn and the hyper-tuned crew,

Sailing right through the impossible blue.

{all textures colliding in wave} Absolute

unique sovereignty. Absolute masterwork.

Tara, Captain Quinn, and the hyper-tuned crew.

[TAPES-FADING-INTO-THE-SOUND-OF-WARM-RAIN.] [TIGUIDOU-SEAL-LOCK.] {dissolving

instruments into rain and sub-bass}