But the cheaper the talk, the better, as long as it's cold,
Held out like a tongue-tied swizzle-stick
As the story finds its own twists naturally,
No one needed to actually listen, which no one
Wants to actually do, as they talk to the smiling wall.
There are many unique timbres on the instruments,
Like an orchestra of sorts, that sounds, at a certain distance
Like song, melodies that come back incessantly
To the root, harmonious cackles where there would be
Agreement on the details, and the beat of pleas
As if the voice could live, if only it was heard.
But it is not to be.
The train of voices cannot stop at any station.
But anything is better than sending it out into the ethosphere
Like an empty bottle on the water.
