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Armchairs
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Andrew Bird
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1
I dreamed you were a cosmonaut
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Of the space between our chairs
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And I was a cartographer
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Of the tangles in your hair
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I sang the song that silence brings
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It's the one that everybody knows, everybody knows
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The song that silence sings
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And this, this is how it goes
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These looms that weave apocrypha
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They're hanging from a strand
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This dark and empty rooms were full
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Of incandescent hands
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Awkward pause, the fatal flaw
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Time, it's a crooked bow
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Time is a crooked bow
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Time you need to learn to love
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The ebb just like the flow
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Grab hold of your bootstraps and pull like hell
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Until gravity feels sorry for you and lets you go
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As if you lack the proper chemicals to know, oh
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The way it felt the last time you let yourself fall this low
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Time, time it's a crooked bow
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Time's a crooked bow
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Time's a crooked bow, oh, ooh
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Fifty-five and three-eighths years later
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At the bottom of this gigantic crater
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An armchair calls to you
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Yeah, this armchair calls to you
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And it says that someday we'll get back at them all
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With epoxy and a pair of pliers
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As ancient sea slugs begin to crawl
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Through the ragweed and barbed wire, oh
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You didn't write, you didn't call
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It didn't cross your mind at all, hey
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Through the waves, the waves of hay and straw
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You couldn't feel a thing at all
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Fifty-five and three-eighths, time
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Fifty-five and three-eighths time, time
Andrew Bird: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert
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