"Headphones" Bjork

If I could be the drug on your tongue, if I could swim in your blood.
If these accidental collisions grew patterns of intent.
If somebody lifted these gauzy rain clouds, several months late. They had no business here.
If we were blind and mute.
If it were as simple as the confluence of tributaries, identified by a new whole.
If I could leave these things behind and scale these walls.

These names follow me around. These disparate events are growing arms to reach each other and are aligning themselves under new definitions. I am cheap and jealous. I am plummeting into the negative half of my mind's amplitude. Where is the smell of Dharamsala? Where are these secret weapons I've been collecting?

How can we be judged on our successes, when they do not speak of the chaos that surrounds every event, and are influenced by those whose intent nor means we can control?

We do the best we can and I hope that somebody is keeping track.