I wish it was a Saturday, I wish that wasn't all I had to say.
Another life, another way, I wish it wasn't such a beautiful day.
I'll never build you up to break you down in circles for me.
I couldn't make you up to write you down in a thousand stories.
This is just a breakfast conversation;
If I'm not smart, and you're too far,
What makes me crash into your stars?
If I can't love, without the noise,
What makes you hold me and not those other boys?
I lie in bed, I lie awake, I wish that you were close enough to take
I know the cards, I know the stakes, you're far enough to make a lonely heart break
I'll never build you up to break you down in circles for me.
I couldn't make you up to write you down in a thousand stories.
This is just a breakfast conversation;
If I'm not smart, and you're too far,
What makes me crash into your stars?
If I can't love, without the noise,
What makes you hold me and not those other boys?
Here I am, way down on your line, but the waiting feel is fine.
There always comes a point where we need to decide for ourselves what kind of person will we be? Will Igo get it? Will we wait for it to come get us? Does "it" even matter that much? Does anything matter at all? Metals forged in flames, men made in fire. Its hot out. it always is. i guess i'll always look for excuses. i guess i'll always run away.
here's a boy riding a motorcycle. he's riding his motorcycle as fast as he can. he's going as fast as this motorcycle can go. feverishly cutting off other vehicles at a moments notice and more and more - leaving zero room for error. entering another drivers life, ever so briefly and leaving them with only the worst taste in their mouths. upsetting some, hurting others, but generally being a beligerant human being. at some points the steering wheel shakes tremendously. in fear - and some shame, he slows down - if only for a moment. soon the remorse wears off and he speeds up, slowly of course, working his way back into a perfectly reckless state. gaining speed, the wind flows through his hair fantastically, as - of course, the boy does not wear a helmet. infact, he is outfitted with only a short pair of shorts and a bitchin pair of sunglasses, of course. with speeds entering the red zone, our boy is showing no signs of slowing down. other than the occasional speed wobble. the kicker here, is the fact that the motorcycle our boy is riding, is a really, really nice motorcycle. like nice. like, this boy is L-U-C-K-Y LUCKY to have this motorcycle as his own. very lucky. whether he worked very hard to own this motorcycle, or he fell ass backwards lucky into it - its nice. assuming the former is true, this only amplifies the entropy that is our boys ill-fated decision making process. the end of this story, should be easily predictable. our boy ends up in a head first crash with the broad side of a school bus or other cold, steel receptical. the crash is glorious - cinematic even. most ironic part of the crash? the bitchin sunglasses don't seem like such a necessity anymore. furthermore, the really, really nice motorcycle, acting as a host to a great number of damage inducing qualities, is not so really, really nice anymore. further details on the grand finale of this show can not be provided as it is a frighteningly unfamiliar subject with the author, and he is far too unprepared and inexperienced at the moment to shed any further light on the story. albeit luck will only save a soul for so long. and chance can only champion your spot in line so often. and the privelages will only numb the pain for a season, and the limelight will only hide the burns for a time. do we really want our boy on the motorcycle to end up a sad story that will turn to rumor in years and a faint distant blurred memory in only a single lifetime. leaving behind a legacy of dirty shoes, some regrets, lots of stuff, and only a few good choices, will be as good as he can hope for if he doesn't learn to slow down. to take it easy, and treat other drivers on the road a little nicer. with a little more respect. maybe even some love. this is a driver that has clearly never crashed before. clearly, never been hurt before. over the years, having developed exceptional skills of weaving through traffic and cutting other drivers off, effortlessly honing these deplorable attributes to an almost 'white glove' perfection. yet never having felt the shock of having to slam on your breaks in fear of losing a life, or the deep sting of road rash after being all too reckless. can he stop on his own? will anyone tell him to stop? will anyone try? can anyone get to him in time? can anyone catch up? is it even worth trying? maybe the sooner he crashes the better. the world doesnt really need dangerous people. and nobody wants to remember a bastard. but the wind sure feels good through the hair though. and it is damn nice hair.
