Lets hold it closer to the thought of a tomorrow seemingly stitched together by sunken dreams and floating hopes and shattered memories of days forgotten. Scrap books and photo albums of minutes and hours and days tocked by flaunt their pages and whore emotion from images of empty people -hollow kids with hollow eyes and stares and faces and glares and aspirations to compete in a contest of pitch.
Informal phone calls at 2 AM from kids we've lost connection with -a hazy, distant voice and an incoherent picture plays in your head to match the timbre. Then there's the dial tone. They hang up. You hope they don't call back.
Operator voices keep you company on cold nights when pre-recorded comfort seems overrated.