(It's like, once I get closer to the truth, the problems broaden from the thin red lines to the width of an ottoman or coffins. I don't feel speared or betrayed, I just feel weird and delayed. I think about Kristen, and I think about her ditch-kissing. And I think about wishing that we had kissed in that ditch, and I wish that you had never even looked at that girl. This song is about flight, and functioning alcoholics, and old religions, and pageantry. and musk in a black hat, and a dead-eyed goldfish that I gawked at, and this dream that I had.)

I had a dream that you and I were Siamese, my left eye on your left eye and my right eye on your forehead, and my neck was twisted, face was listless due to how familiar it was in my presumed entire existence as a twin. And that's the state I dreamed that we were in.

And in that dream, the surgeons then divided us. There were doctors of the ears and nose and throat, and neurosurgeons, and some plastic ones to make us look as normal as we could upon our sudden separation. They did all that they could do.

But in the middle of the surgery, they lost you.
I love you too much.
I was Peter, he was Paul. You're at the center of it all.

The sheets are Lady in the Radiator white, and the room smells like sulfur. I caught the bullet in my independent hands, but your little neck ruptured. And you can see my soul leaving through my eyes when I wake up in the middle of the night and I find myself reaching out. Reaching out. Screaming loud. I keep screaming 'til I'm so fucking exhausted, and I wish they had never split us up. They could've waited centuries; it still would be abrupt. I keep my hands cupped for communion, but I'll spit it right back soon enough.

Why can't I be strong right now?
And when will I stop reaching out?