The table's a little neater. The ashtray's a little emptier. The music's a little more subtle, that it numbs the sounds of coherent breathing. The shoutings are a little kinder. The outlook of life's a little brighter. The coffee's a little sweeter. The night's a little darker. The morning's a little earlier. My heart's a little stronger. My love's a little stranger. The ashtray's getting a little fuller. The phone's getting a little silent. The coffee's getting a little colder. Confusion's getting a little wiser. The music's getting a little futile. The ambiguity's getting a little harsher. The home's getting a little foreign. It's getting a little too foreign. It's getting foreign. Love's getting a little frightening. It's getting frightening. Home is getting a little frightening. Home is foreign. Love's getting a little too foreign. Love is foreign.

Confusion is playing a wise game. My musing is tangling a strange manipulation so unkind. The shoutings are frightening. My heart's getting too cold.

It's all about the wordplay.