it is a precious thing to waste, the human mind. especially on trivial things. it matters what you love and counts for what you love to sing. so sing it from your souls, oh lovely lights; oh rings encircle what is right to be left slinging.
it is a precious thing to waste, our finite time. especially on fiction or tumbled dreams. it’s mostly what you love and not what you love to hate to bring to passers by on broad streets laughing endlessly. so have it be brought from your souls, oh wasted minutes; see no sights of troubled wings left to be flown.
it is a precious thing to waste: this life on lonely things.
so if you need to, sing a sad song to be paired with sadder songs, singing.
and be free.