or, Op. 73_ I.

It was a bird, begging to be let in, that tugged on the strings inside your ribs, and after fading into the sounds of your commute to work, the robin keeps the beat for a choir eight billion strong. They perform on the cusp of unknown and charted territory, each artist agonizingly similar to one another and yourself.

It’s a song that’s been sung before, it’s a song that will be sung for a long time, but as it’s sung now, you cry with the chorus.

It’s a happy song. I cannot emphasize enough that this song is a happy one. Your tears are immensely content, dripping down and drowning in the velveteen cushions on your dark oak armrests, nailed into the floor of your premium cost box.

You know what it’s like to drown now. Try the dead man’s float. The next step is swimming, but it’s okay to save your energy for a little while longer.