I There’s a song you know, playing on the other side of the wall though you don’t know who plays it, only that you are listening with her, hearing her as her voice picks up the lyrics from the music and carries them in her throat. You have heard this song but you’ve never heard another voice use its words. II This is not a song you know, though the wall is like the pink you once had in your bedroom, and the color feels warm around your eyes— you are seeing into her window from the street below and there is a picture hanging, but you won’t make it out. The car and its radio passes by before you have time step in front of it and ask what the picture looks like. III She tells you she’s working on something new and that these are the lyrics and that this is what she thinks her sound is and that thank god they’re not as sad as the last ones and you read them and you wonder what they will sound like but you cannot hear them, not yet.
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