Over and over and around around the same tiny circle. I talk to strangers. I talk to myself. My dead friends. I don't know if they hear me. I don't even know if they even liked me. I didn't return that call until it as too late. I'm sorry Steve. I'm sorry Bart. I'm sorry Lenny, I'm sorry Dennis, I'm sorry Chris. I miss you all.
I sit in the parking lot trying to stay out of the hard sun. I wish for a home and forest dark green trees and wet earth. A home with 3 0r 4 or more doors in and out. Not one godamm exit. A garage to sit in next to a washer and dryer where I can smoke a cig in the dark and rest my eyes. The music I hear on the streets outside I don't like. The 20 million cars roaring by make my head hurt. Going nowhere, with no one. Not playing guitar anymore. How the fuck do I deal with that? I was in bands. Now? Can't play in this shitty apt. Its all apartment beige. The parking is non existent. I blew it. I miss you guys. I fucked it all.
I rally a bit and hang in. Then the nothing repeats over and over and over with hints of disaster and horrible disease. Oh boy. It wasn't always this way. We were young and riding bikes and skateboards and drinking beers at the parties and surfing and chasing girls. I'm sorry I didn't get to talk to you. I'm sorry I waited. I'm sorry I hesitated. There's no one to talk to. Look forward to? What? When?
