If not about about eggs, what about craters? We stopped cooking and resumed star-gazing, big sis and I. She grew up strong and healthy, in the early 1100s, which was a rarity. The stars were no less hearty. We would watch until we discovered food in the 1200s, I think it was. This is all extraordinarily speculative, since we are several centuries removed from these blessed events. We were really something under the stars, we'd say. They distracted us from eating, we began to reflect, as we ate. Later, we repented for this low account of star-gazing. What could be better than a little moon-worship for two eggs like us?
Tra la la beee tra ma da. it's a funnny way toooo live.
Been around the bend and back
Tilllll the morniiing light ssssssshiiinees doooown.
(sung in a very high falsetto voice that cracks every so often)
I hammered away at my song lyrics, sometimes for days without eating. It was obsessive moon-worship, as well as something beyond obsession. The lyrics encapsulated how I felt, while restricting feeling. I began to stare at the moon with eyes too calculating, and my posture was the first evidence of the imposition that, physically, my bad habit of writing songs while gazing at the dark sky was. We were a mess then, us eggs. We were yolk, without halogen whites to brighten the "unmentionable" areas of our brother- or sister-lover bodies. Heavenly skies, delightfully myopic. Blind as bats, we wrote songs like this.
HEEBITY JEEBITY
I'm croaking, cracking, crimping for your love.
Hair's on fire like bees bees spider spider
moose deer rhinocerous pelican
animals forever
I gazed into brother's eyes, my own filled with tears. In his there were crusties in the corner. Damn this moon pulling on the groin of my womanhood. I can barely contain my emotions.
