Say you will
I'm coming over
Say why, yeah?
I'll bring it over

Mesh diamonds step up
Mesh steel rolls back
Windows think beginnings
It's a hole in the wall

Clothes shop
In bricks
Deep night
I'm coming over

I'm a sinner in the summer
I got a cap with a ying yang
I feel like a sinner
Bring it over

Lit up glass
Pine tree scent
The pancake house
My cap has a ying yang on it

Clothes shops
Deep nights
In bricks
Waiting in the lot

Freezing stadium
Ring the shops
Against the tarps
Frozen car doors

Say you will
Say why, yes?
Bring it over
Say yes, yeah?

Bring it over
Rubble hill
Blue lights for a mile
Say you will

I got a cap
I feel like a sinner
In the summer
With my ying yang

This is the story of a young man who was enchanted by the scenes of cities at night.
The more desolate, the better. Unadorned brick walls, vague hazy skies after midnight, freezing empty places, it was considered beautiful to him.
His goal was to capture that feeling in a few carelessly written stanzas, taking much care to emulate the style of a carefree city man.
He published the poem even though it was not good, and he wrote about his intentions as an addendum.
He would like to apologize to Chris Cuomo, and ask that passengers remain seated and strapped into their seatbelts, because they will be landing soon.
He continued to write after apologizing to Chris Cuomo and asking that all passengers remain seated, wishing to reflect more.
He considered the slightly stilted cadence and word choice of his recent lines, and was pleased with it. It made him feel free.
You're going to be all right. You've just stumbled over a stone in the road. It means nothing. Your goal lies far beyond this - doesn't it?
The young man was searching for a way to articulate how her eyes made him feel.
Not the eyes of a lover, but of a love. The current song ended for a second time, and he hoped to dissociate until the lines reduced to nothing, like a sedative in a hospital bed.
He waited, and waited. He waited for it to go away. But he played the current song a third time, and found himself waiting again.
He waited for the world to disappear and the lines to disappear into a satisfying result, but yet each remained.
They remained until they disappeared.

It occured to him that everything he wrote was a singular attempt at one thing, to, in a word, find someone who made him feel the way her eyes made him feel.
He continued to write, satisfied by the poor quality of it, hiding behind the dissociation.
I can, he thought, essentially write what I want this way.
He hoped the IV was dripping in.
You're going to be all right. You've just stumbled over a stone in the road. It means nothing. Your goal lies far beyond this - doesn't it?
A lot had happened to him, and he wondered if he would ever share it with someone before he died. The more that happened to him, the more remote that possibility seemed.

He wondered if he was still attempting to do just that - to share.
It was the story of a young man who found cities beautiful - the more desolate, the better. Vague, hazy skies after midnight, unadorned brick walls, places that were freezing and where no one would go.
The more that he saw, the more he had to share. The more he remembered, the more alone he felt.
Tiny, tiny fragments of a story. Feeble attempts at mentioning what it contained.
He wondered if he would find someone. He wondered if someone else would feel the same.
He was not a very good listener, which made him a hypocrite. It meant that if someone else was like that, he would be unlikely to find out or want to listen to them.
He wondered if someone else would feel the same. He wondered if the IV was dripping.
https://youtube.com/watch?v=vZa0Yh6e7dw