“Armchairs” Andrew Bird

I dreamed you were a cosmonaut
Of the space between our chairs
And I was a cartographer
Of the tangles in your hair

I sang the song that silence sings
It’s the one that everybody knows
Everybody knows
The song that silence sings
And this is how it goes

These looms that weave apocrypha
They’re hanging from a strand
The dark and empty rooms were full
Of incandescent hands

The awkward pause
The fatal flaw
Time, it’s a crooked bow
Time is a crooked bow

In time you need to learn, to love
The ebb just like the flow
Grab hold of your bootstraps, and pull like hell
Until gravity feels sorry for you, and lets you go
As if you lack the proper chemicals to know
The way it felt the last time you let yourself fall this low

Fifty-five and three-eighths years later
At the bottom of a gigantic crater
An armchair calls to you
Yeah, an armchair calls to you
It says, someday, we’ll get back at them all
With epoxy and a pair of pliers
As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl
Through the ragweed and barbed wire

You didn’t write
You didn’t call
It didn’t cross your mind at all
Through the waves
Waves of hay and straw
You couldn’t feel a thing at all
Fifty-five and three-eighths
Time

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