There was a bridge, a trip switch between my stomach and my sanity
I was on my own 52nd street, heckled at for poor time keeping
Charlie parker ducking a cymbal
Only severed syncopation between my lungs and my breath.
Every time jump leads to get them moving together. Every time a panic attack
I'd cave under invisible pressure, trying to be present,
melt in the mirror, take in the bigger picture
The only time I didn't break down was on a sofa, with Rick Stein repeats
So that's where I'd be for months.