Greatest Hits Collection

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Knock so I'll know you're still there, half listening, interpreting the air.

Full of failing foreign tongue, my dialect of stammer come undone.

I've got these threads of you and I that I use to tie my doubts down, and from four times-zones away, still yesterday, still talking to the past: from the front seat of your car, gravel road and falling, falling hands and falling star.

Start the engine up. I'd like a new identity.

A pseudonym.

Some plastic surgery.

Or just a way to disappear.

Someone to write me out of here.

I hear you hum an unfamiliar song.

Thought maybe you would come along.

Perhaps you'd like to see some piece of this; my new philosophy is that a crappy tape deck somewhere plays a greatest hits collection of strange and tender moments, lost, stranded, and forgotten.

I'll meet you there. (Something I forgot to say: can't find a way to make this mark more clear.

So crack your skull before you weep, and I'll try to keep some part of me sincere.)

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