I am your ticket to a fairy tale ending, young lady with an older heart than mine, hiding behind shining facade of bottles and clapping loud and off rhythm with Bruce Springsteen, sitting and analyzing art and remaining outside of museums and never understanding the concepts, we are alone here in this tangled web of enormous spaghetti strands, of false columns or british lamp posts with political agendas, but we are apart from the politics of the world, and we can mention this or that as we please. Leaving out all of the true details and using body language to describe stories and happenings between moments of awful and tense silence. Getting high to fight off demons of self distrust and legs shone in sunlight, dog killed on highway, wrong turns made in alcoholic frenzy and we speak freely about nothing, everything light and nice, the ugliest words from the dictionary listed, I am a couch potato and smoking pot is a sign of mutual awareness of evident boredom in this free form and wasteful existence, temporarily at most, hold on tightly to this device as we ride out of control and never argue, we kept light and simple, stupid metaphors in between our teeth, free residency for the museum, 20 bucks to see kubrick and the whole rest of it, someday soon, the tar pits swallowing the mother of ancient elephant descendants, we are not the adolescents, but we are funny and nice. Polite fucking versions and money wasted in piles. Go to shows. That was fun. You are funny. That was a nice thing you did there.
Such simple and wasteful language. Do you care to understand such drivel?
