Let’s see what happens if I cut it down so much that there’s not enough to make sense or not make sense.
The folks in the street keep shouting and the birds at night don’t stop singing: there’s a waterfall not far from here that pauses once a month to take a breath. That might be what the clouds are saying as the sun chases them away. It can’t help that the night won’t stop descending, but the wind picks up and not even the cynical can keep from flying. I’m a fool, not naive. But you’re drunk, not confused, so you don’t know what it means that the sheets are always tangled and the pillows are on the floor.
The result is that it doesn’t make sense.