Her Attempt at Conversion.

On a street somewhere with asphalt reflecting sunlight into my glasses
inside with water reflecting words into my ears
there's a girl talking to me from across the table with a name, but of course I don't know what it is
Again and again pelted by stimulation of my ears and eyes
trying to make sense of either of them but all the information is so damn disjointed
Confusing, Disconnected, Mingled, Sliced, Seasoned, Coloured, Colourless...
(I hear those scientists haven't perfected the polarised earmuffs yet)
So hey, what's wrong, what's wrong. What's wrong with me
tell me so that I might, tell me, tell me, tell me,
but all I get is just those disjointed words all over again
with different patterns sprinkled with copyrighted confetti so difficult to get off of your face or out of your ears
shredded books of love, of love in my hair
but it's my hair and a part of me will always hate her for it
Yeah, smile, smile, smile, reboot, read, smile
Let me have those headphones in your bag and I'd tell you just how horrid your music is
with all the same progressions and professions and transgressions
too many and yet they're always right there and I can't insult them.
Reboot, read, smile.
Where am I?
Where am I going? Where am I? Tell me, tell me, tell me.
But the asphalt it just too much and it boils over into my subconscious
tells me something is wrong, takes control, but no, I can control it for a little longer
Much of it all makes sense, tell me, tell, tell!