There's a voice on the phone telling what had happened. Some kind of confusion,
more like a disaster. And it wondered how you were left unaffected, but you had
no knowledge. No, the chemicals covered you. And so the jury was formed as more
liquor was poured. No need for conviction, they're not thirsting for justice.
But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head. I found out I was guilty, I
found out I was guilty. But I won't be around for the sentencing, cause I'm
leaving, I'm on the next airplane.
Though I know that my actions are impossible to justify. They seem adequate to
fill up my time. But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else. Well,
then maybe I could take your advice. And I wouldn't act like such an asshole all
the time.
There's a film on the wall, makes the people look small, who are sitting beside
it, all consumed in the drama. They must return to their lives once the hero has
died, they will drive to the office, stopping somewhere for coffee. Where the
folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene, dispensing their wisdom, oh dear
amateur orator. And they will detail their pain in some standard refrain, that
will recite their sadness, like it's some kind of contest.
Well if it is, I think I am winning it. All beaming with confidence as I make my
final lap. The gold medal gleams, so hang it around my neck, cause I am
deserving it, the champion of idiots.
But a kid carries his walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha. I know a girl who
cries when she practices violin, cause each note sounds so pure, it just cuts
into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now to me, everything
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