I've been walking down the street with an alarm clock in one hand and a bumper sticker that says "Practice premeditated acts of wanton destruction" in the other. I've been stopping at stop signs and never starting again.
One day I'm going to blow you away; no, really, I mean it. Take you by the hand by the dawn's early light. Because that's just how much I care.
That's just how much I want to share your daily routine, your frantic search for the little things, the little things, it's a would-you-like-some-ketsups world of event-break-event. That's just how much I care about your leatherbound desktop appointment book with dates in black and red. Teatime. A time for love and a time for hate.
A time to reap and a time to sow. My alarm clock's buzzing in one hand and the passersby eye me suspiciously. Hey you! Explode!
I want to rain on your fashion parade. I want to sneer at your petticoat prowess. Give me a candle to light at both ends; I want to see which one burns first.
And then I'm sitting in the middle of the road. It's late at night and the only sound I hear is the pattering of the sprinklers on the concrete lawn next door and I lean back and look up to the nebulous nighttime sky. And I'm wondering if the stars will come out. And I'm waiting for the fog to clear from my future's dreamscape. And I'm shouting down the moon.
I don't want to travel all my life with your mockingbird cultural baggage, don't want to answer your rhetorical questionnaires. I don't want to have this same conversation again and again and again.
So for now I'm stocking up, putting feet in my future mouth. I can't take this buzzing forever. One of these days I'll wake up and smell the rats. Backwards, inside out: Star rats. Nebulae.
Look, man, says the coffee shop ceiling fixture. It's cosmic, man. They say we've got to live life by their rules. But who are they? We've got entropy on our side. Decay's begun, decay will grow.
You can stuff your mellow meditations. Call 'em macaroni. I don't want a future that looks like that. Don't want to be a dud at the fireworks ranch.
My alarm clock is buzzing. It's rattling my stride. A time to sew. Backwards, inside out: that's me.
There's things to be done. I've got appointments to keep. I've got a plan to uphold. I've been thinking of the future and I think I'm growing old.
And with that, what's the use? Who's to say? I'll explode.