Armchairs

I dreamed you were a cosmonaut Of the space between our chairs And I was a cartographer Of the tangles in your hair I sang the song that silence brings It's the one that everybody knows, everybody knows The song that silence sings And this, this is how it goes These looms that weave apocrypha They're hanging from a strand This dark and empty rooms were full Of incandescent hands Awkward pause, the fatal flaw Time, it's a crooked bow Time is a crooked bow Time you need to learn to love The ebb just like the flow Grab hold of your bootstraps and pull like hell Until gravity feels sorry for you and lets you go As if you lack the proper chemicals to know, oh The way it felt the last time you let yourself fall this low Time, time it's a crooked bow Time's a crooked bow Time's a crooked bow, oh, ooh Fifty-five and three-eighths years later At the bottom of this gigantic crater An armchair calls to you Yeah, this armchair calls to you And it says that someday we'll get back at them all With epoxy and a pair of pliers As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl Through the ragweed and barbed wire, oh You didn't write, you didn't call It didn't cross your mind at all, hey Through the waves, the waves of hay and straw You couldn't feel a thing at all Fifty-five and three-eighths, time Fifty-five and three-eighths time, time --- Armchairs - Andrew Bird