I told you there aren't many ways to write a love song without ending up with a short list of war crimes. That an emergency is after all just five girls saying I told you so. The way you read the instructions to suicide and come up with a poem. That a day without moving would, above all, require a strong mind. A family loan. To exist is to make a private event out of the sea rise. Imagining yourself on a radio show, explaining your childhood in punchlines. Everyone impressed by your humble beginnings. By the way you always carry a plastic bag around, trying to preserve some nature. The biosphere in your briefcase. I fell in love that very day. Writing from a city I’d never been in. Wanting my old body back. If you insist on writing a love song, make sure the first line is stolen. Accuracy in act. I told you there aren't many ways to cross a border without turning your head. That maybe the key to choosing the right partner is whatever Teen Vogue has to say about it. That the light-flashes may well be a warning, but they’re also one of life’s main attractions. And if you and your friends want to hold a funeral, the dead will come rushing. The cover band sponsored by NATO’s suburban plan. Back through the body and into the railroad. One final time. I told you that the dots between intention are better understood from the grave-digger’s viewpoint. At the sunrise shift. And if you have nothing better to do, I can stay right here with you and watch.