Well, I tried to write a letter to the king of all creation and I got a postcard saying, "Well now, boy, don't you think it's time?" I can tell by the absent old command and that it's written in my own bold hand that I think I must be guilty of some existential crime. But aren't we all?
And in three days, they will build a brand new temple to the dollar and I know if I can't be there on the day the doors swing wide I will know I've missed salvation's clearance sale and destined, sure enough, to fail. We want to but we cannot stem the ocean tide. But can't we all?
I can tell just by my busted lip that time and all intentions slip into the black box, full abyss, that keeps us standing still. But if I had my faith and one more chance, I'd grab my family and dance and shout out loud these last few words from my worn windowsill. But can't we all?
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