I could have a crush on someone It would be simple and uncomplicated Nothing complex, well, I'm not that complex And I'd forget about it six months later Am I the sort who is easily moved But could say you were cool and be chill and be smooth? Oh man You forget who you're talking to And now it's six months later And I hang on every word you say Which is easy as, by your admission, You don't talk a lot anyway I know that we don't see each other much Which is fine, I can't tell you that I long for your touch Or maybe, forget who I was talking to And if you didn't exist Would I have willed you into being? I try to write you down And it's like you're already receding And it's nice you try to keep up But you know I'm just really trying I am jealous of your fanbase They're not into you the way that I am And before you, I loved someone Who would tell me I'm his wild honey Invented languages in his sandpit Let his brothers have their drugs and their money I distinctly recall all the weeks on the beach But when surf was up it recedes out of reach And I guess that will be us too (And this is the part of the song where I try to migrate the narrative two months forward, into the present. From the person I was back then to the person I am now. Already I barely remember last season, the memories slip through my hands like ghosts. What the fuck was I thinking? Why did I decide to write this? I fill the gaps with lies and cutesy references - a film we never saw, a meal we never ate, a dance we never did - and the audience can't even tell whether the part where I tell them I'm lying is actually the part where I'm lying most. A metatextual gag. This is the cue for getting back to the rest of the song.) And what else is on? Who else makes things I'd be into? What else is on? Fuck, was it really that simple? I barely think of you Look at the stream through the window This is how it ends Not with a bang, but a whimper Ooooh weeeee oooooh, oooh woooo, oooh oooh (etc)

I wrote a letter but I don't think you got it The words are unfamiliar when I look at my copy Like a Shakespeare play that's really written by Bacon The words all seem right, there's just an aura of faking I tried to keep from writing on Twitter About my heart getting hard, growing black, growing bitter Not through some desire to conceal my feelings Just because that stuff don't lead to likes and retweeting Still: ever since you left me I have felt like garbage Not a sentient entity from the 20th century And with every lifetime on alternative timelines Every adventure presents dissension eventually And if I'm so clever, why aren't I feeling better? If I'm so witty, how come I don't run this city? Try to be on point but can't say anything relevant Just symphonies from death like pianos made from elephants I distinctly recall owning a VHS Where Sinbad played a genie, he was sassy and fiery But IMDB tells me that my memories are false And I'd be told the same thing if I looked at your diary Well, it's a convoluted way to say I miss you Well, it's a convoluted way to say: I miss you, I need you, I care, I guess