Scouring the shops for retro playthings, been-used books and classic, gently-worn threads

I find whimsy

Somehow the hit songs from even this and last year’s summers seem broken, dusty and worn-through at the knees

I’m left thirsty

Used, non-sensical songs creakily playing broken, dusty, worn words, reminding me 

Of the lies I said to myself to survive at about thirteen

I’ve survived…I believe, and I want this: new songs