I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Monday, November 24, 2003
The Postal Service Nothing Better Lyrics...
Will someone please call a surgeon who can crack my ribs
and repair this broken heart that you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over: I will block the door
like a goalie tending the net in the third quarter
of a tied-game of rivalry
So just say how to make it right
and I swear I'll do my best to comply
Tell me am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together
I feel I must interject here, you're getting carried away,
feeling sorry for youself with these revisions and gaps in history.
So let me help you remember. I've made charts
and graphs that should finally make it clear.
I've prepared a lecture on why I have to leave
So please back away and let me go
I can't my darling I love you so. oh ohhhh
Tell me am I right to think that there could be nothing better
than making you my bride and slowly growing old together
don't you feed me lines about some idealistic future
your heart won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures
I admit that I have made mistakes
and I swear I'll never wrong you again
you've got a lure I can't deny,
but you've had your chance so say goodbye,
say goodbye
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