Armchairs

I dreamed you were a cosmonaut
Of the space between our chairs
And I was a cartographer
Of the tangles in your hair
Oh, the silent song that silence sing
It's the one that everybody knows
Oh, 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
These dark and empty rooms were full
Of incandecent hands
Awkward pause
And fatal flaws
Time, it's a crooked bow
Time's a crooked bow
In time you need to learn to love
The ebb just like the flow

Grab hold of your bootstraps
Oh, and pull like hell
Till gravity feels sorry for you
Oh, 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
Oh and time, it's a crooked bow
Time's a crroked bow
Time's a crooked bow

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 pir of pliers
As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl
Through the ragweed and barbed wire

Oh no, you didn't write, you didn't call
It didn't cross your mind at all
Through the waves, the waves of hay and squalor
You couldn't feel anything at all
Your fifty five and three eighths time
Your fifty five and three eighths time
Time
Time