The city bleeps; cornerstone flyers say your time is up, but the track plays on. Your mind is mine, and mine is gone. Welcome to tomorrow—pension plans and HMOs aside, we’ve got what you want.
It’s midnight dear, past the snowflakes, your heart is clear and love is near. No, please, I didn’t mean what I said. I do love you, but the time is not right. You and I: the equation doesn’t flow. How should it go? Well, fuck. How would I know.
I’m not what you want; the streaks, the trades, the tricks that play on the hierarchy of mistakes: it’s all a tragedy filled with anarchy and melodramatic stupidity. Failure’s not an option, but your father didn’t let you succeed; so, what can you do? Move on and just feed—
Money driven culture, it’s a mixture of truth and despair, but it doesn’t matter because silver spoons are aware that you exist. It’s in your mouth, give out a shout and the world is yours. You do what you want and flow like a butterfly, just like a lullaby and lull yourself to sleep.
Wake up in forever, go on a new endeavour and come to understand that life is like this for a reason, that you and I are not the same, that there’s no one to blame, that the world spins round and round awaiting it’s time to claim you as the inspector of properties, making sure all bends and tweaks have been made.
Then the clicking stops; hops down to the boulevard and stocks the shops with dummy dolls and racing cars in hopes of flying away in a fantasy, to exist in another day, to become absent from reality.