Из альбома: Blame & Aging
It’s all so subtle, still so subtle, the way that storm clouds gather around me.
At first sight, the sun still mutters, so softly mutters through the screen doors.
Now the hour of growth and death is upon my spoiled
and rotting body beset by electric shocks rattling through my nerves
Muscles that sit as weak as falling rain
And my joints they’re snagged by snares
and snap back like rubber bands and rolling tide
Today I don’t feel like doing much except
sit inside maybe waste my time
unsure of where I’m going
or if the direction even matters
I feel the beginning tingling of weight on my chest
the prelude to smothering anxiety to cut through the boredom
but there’s work to be done so much work to be done
I can’t move
I can’t even sit up in my bed anymore
Every day I have visions of myself dying the next
a collapsing old man
An impatient future that’s beckoning me
towards wheelchairs and hospital beds
Twenty-one and always aching
I still don’t know what’s wrong with me
Weakening, staggering, trembling
I can’t expect you to understand