-Any old day and the dime is tight …
The singer blows the chorus but keeps his cool. Although Mary’s press puts out the image of taciturnity bordering on social autism, there were those dubiously lucky few who had seen her transformation, in the right circumstances, into a fount of jabbery sparks, ceaseless in opinions, sentiment, and invective. These were not, however monologues: Mary was too vain, too self-conscious to let her image be unbalanced by needless selfishness. She hugged nothing for too long. At its best, a conversation was an arrival, by stitch and scar, to a condition of baffled silence, the only move left to the players a leap, together, into the void that might pass for understanding.
-Any old day …
She finds the lyrics seep more clearly with eyes closed. He never listens to the lyrics no that isn’t true she’s the one it’s her that insists they’re an afterthought a trivial necessity a hook to hang attitude on. An electricity bill can be sung with great passion just as the finest finest love songs are the ones where nothing gets said. It’s a tired argument. Go away, she says. Go away and bore the graffiti. Or come back but shut up and put your pulse to good use put your money where my mouth is? The table splits its sides with laughter, flames lick the laminated ceiling and the band encores with a Viking burial dirge. Another successful night out: memory taken to the cleaners; language beaten to a back alley pulp; some stranger scooping away above her as she passes out.