Clocks That Can't Count

We were waiting for the floor. Standing on the walls. Wondering if we'd ever walk. We sat through the cermony. In straight-backed chairs. That futile baptism. That inevitably precedes ditry t-shirts on the floor. Unsaddled beds being ridden.

If it was broken.

There will always be glass. If you can walk. There are always pieces you won't find until you've stepped on them. There in those floors you thought were gone.

In lies that played like expensive phonographs. Too perfet to tell the copy from the source.

We're still waiting on the floor. We always have been. Ever since we first set foot on those walls.

It's never enough just trying to walk.