the soundtrack to our lives

Somedays I am swallowed alive by lyrics. Like Brandon Boyd would just swoop me up and throw me up into the air like a jellybean, and I would plop into his huge mouth and big teeth. I could go around in his brain, figuring out puzzles of words, looking at art pieces, and just listening to words bounce around like shimmering stars, and settle. He would tap his head, and I would slide down his ear, and fall into M.I.A's backpack, while we dodged Ak-47 bullets and trudged around the slums of India. We would spend the day tagging graffiti and listening to the cries of the people, as we sat in refugees houses and felt a revolution start to unfold. She would then drop me into the guitar center of Ben Harper, where I would just curl up against the wood and smell the red wine as he sung so deeply of heartache, that I would just cry and absorb his tremebling voice, and desperatly long to piece him back together. He would shake me out of the soundhole, and I would land on the back of Brandon Flowers at dusk, watching the play Mulan Rouge in Paris, and him singing the haunting words of Mr. Brightside, acoustic, and perfectly in cue with every movement of the performance. He would blow me off his shoulder like a dandelion, and I would float to the beach of Australia at night. I would be next to a campfire, and a bottle of Scotch, as Missy Higgins explained to me her writing and her life in her thick Australian accent, and we would look at the translucent stars, as we sang together "10 days". I think quite possible I would crawl into a hammock and fall asleep, realizing quite possibly, that heaven was just like this.