We have found new ways to address light
And the answer was not 42.
There used to be a story
-Do you remember?-
About the propagation of sounds she made in silence
And the music that they play when people are dying.
A soundtrack composed of a spectrum of all blues,
Dripping with ultramarine and violins.
There was something about broken bones too,
But that never seems to convey pain the way it used to.
It's a pity really;
That we can't see what we hear
Without tearing our eyes out;
Begging for an end to the melody you made in Autumn,
When guns sang about blood.
And it's sad too,
That this is always about you.
The words slipping into white noise.