After a while, you really can't tell. One week imitates the other, and every late Sunday evening I can't help but feel more morose. The very biggest threat to life -- is monotony. Then it gets depressing, and you really don't know what to do. And well the blues are beautiful, but that's if you find it in the end of a whisky bottle, perhaps in Chicago, in a club, where I suppose there's enough tobacco burning, and your fingers twitch when the guitar slides.
When suddenly the needle starts to skip, and there's always that scratch on your favourite record, and when it reaches to that point...
And you find yourself sitting there not getting very old, but at home, wondering that there's always an effing Monday after every bloody week. Your old glories are smudged with a new list of what to do, that can't help but be drawn, and that's how you justify your salary, as so many others can't help but to do so. Not knowing what else to do.
But we won't talk no more about it, always optimists out there who take great offence to see their asshole-ism being tied against a pole and shot down.
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I'm singing in the rain.