climb aboard the mystical 3,
and spin stupid tales of flying friends for me.
We can pretend that it's eight years ago,
and as far as we know, it is,
watching ladies peeling oranges from the
elevated safety of our window.
Let's write a novel, a damn good one, too,
about our reflective years which glimmer
when tilted under the flood lights
of Zachary Park, of South Dakotan fields,
remember walking the slopes of French Park?
Ah, silent friend, that wasn't you,
but it most easily could've been.
When was the time we laughed hardest?
This is a quiz, same as all the ones before,
our drinks always, somehow, lose their fizz,
yet together we just keep downing more.
What could be our latest thinking food?
And do you ever lust, do you ever brood,
over the glossy-eyed glances of nobody?
The tasteless lip-licking of the somebodies,
who have forgotten their sculpted ears
over the past three years.
Will we ever cross the isthmus?
Will it ever feel like candy christmas?
I get the feeling you're not excited.
Like the past is somehow gone for good.
But there's fireworks going off out there
and you're invited, and any time you
feel like leaving, you know, you could.
You're getting to that place now.
Where the world seems louder, somehow,
and you've got just as many things to say
as we did on our talk show, that Saturday.
See all your fantastical friends float
to the lavender spires in the sky!
I just have one more question for you.
Can you try?
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