the night's been several nights, stars hanging in skeletons, in a closet full of designer wish bones; it's unfashionably late, you say, enough for everyone holding hands to be counter-clockwise. explain the phoniness of body language, how hairs standing on end are the nervous system auto-tuned; the discotheque in the etch a sketch of our minds, empty lines writing lyrics into soft metal. try remembering something that can beat the beat to its punchline. our brain waves whirlpool like a broken record at one synapse, become a high deaf jam. it's enough for every was of us holding hands to become clock wise.