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A recorded reading of “The Head Was Never the Problem”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
He forgot where he left it— his head, I mean. Maybe in the sock drawer, or that soup can at 2am with "meaning" scribbled on the label. The room didn’t care. It yawned mustard light and whispered, “Try the floor again.” A spilled plant offered consolation. The dirt had more purpose than he did. At least it knew how to fall and stay fallen. The cat bowl was full. He wasn’t. Even the hanging light looked bored of pretending it might someday swing. He wore yellow like a child’s apology stitched from rerun sitcoms. One sock missing, one shoe confused. And there he stood— curved like a comma in the sentence of a life that forgot how to end.
Lyrics
He forgot where he left it— his head, I mean. Maybe in the sock drawer, or that soup can at 2am with “meaning” scribbled on the label. The room didn’t care. It yawned mustard light and whispered, “Try the floor again.” A spilled plant offered consolation. The dirt had more purpose than he did. At least it knew how to fall and stay fallen. The cat bowl was full. He wasn’t. Even the hanging light looked bored of pretending it might someday swing. He wore yellow like a child’s apology stitched from rerun sitcoms. One sock missing, one shoe confused. And there he stood— curved like a comma in the sentence of a life that forgot how to end.
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