End of the line
Lost Property
A small back room behind everything else. Things left on the bus, things that fell out of the book, doors nobody signposted.
Nothing here is new. It all belongs to My Fake Life somewhere — it just never got a proper shelf.
Found artwork
The original printing, before it was cut out of its black card. Kept because somebody had to.
Now the introduction page of My Fake Lyrics. It used to be the front door.
The mirror room. Lyric fragments taped to the glass, most of them never sung out loud.
Where the broadcasts came from. Still humming, nobody at the desk.
A tour that only ever happened in the artwork.
Pages that spilled
Songs that outgrew their page in My Fake Lyrics. The overflow sheets, on their own for once.
The song ran past its page. These are the sheets that had to be added after.
And then it ran past that one too.
The hard way is always longer than the page you gave it.
Unmarked side roads
Left on the counter
free, as everything here is