"Stand inside an empty tuxedo with grapes in my mouth, waiting for Ada."
The National


There were some parts of the story that ended with me being everywhere. It ended with me being in your car. It ended with me in the foothills, leaning against a tree with my rib cage crushing me for the hell of it. Or it ended with the end, which is the part of the song after the song has fizzled out.

My legs do get restless, so much so that I take a sleeping pill to keep the legs in my bed under some covers.
So much do the legs get restless, that after the song fizzles out, I wack them, and pinch them, and say, "Legs, my eyes are tired and they are beggin' you to give it up now." The sleeping pill says funnier things than that, but we can't retell the stories in front of children.

And the color creeps into your skin, unwillingly.
The lines creep up next to your eyes and make you older, even though you are still stubbing your toe against the foot of your bed like you've been doing for twenty years.
Have you learned nothing, in all the weeks you have survived so far?
Your muscles should remember
better
by
now.