"We do not exist," we faithfully insist, sailing in our separate ships and from each tiny caravel; tiring of trying, there's a necessary dying like the horseshoe crab in it's proper season sheds it's shell. Such distance from our friends like a scratch across the lens made everything look wrong from anywhere we stood and our paper blew away before we'd left the bay, so half-blind we wrote these songs on sheets of salty wood.

You caught me making eyes at the other boatmen's wives and heard me laughing louder than the jokes told by their daughters. I'd set my course for land, but you well-understand it takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters. The propeller's spinning blades held acquaintance with the waves as there's mistakes I've made no rowing could outrun. The cloth low on the mast like to say I've got no past but I'm nonetheless the librarian and secretary's son.

With tarnish on my brass and mildew on my glass, I'd never want someone so crass as to want someone like me. But a few leagues off the shore, I bit a flashing lure and I assure it was not what I expected it to be! I still taste it's kiss. That dull hook in my lip is a memory as useless as a rod without a reel to an anchor-ever-dropped-seasick-yet-still-docked. Captain spotted napping with his first mate at the wheel floating forgetfully along with no need to be strong. We keep our confessions long and when we pray we keep it short. I drank a thimbleful of fire and I'm not ever going back. Oh my God!

"I do not exist," we faithfully insist while watching sink the heavy ship of everything we knew. If ever you come near, I'll hold up high a mirror. Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you.