Here She Comes.
I want to shake it out of you, and bleed it out of you.
I want to see anger rise in place of apathy.
I want a fucking storm to blow in and wipe out the buildings, a flood to cover the streets.
I want less time and more action.
I want this frustration to change into something tangible, something I can hold, and feel, and throw against the wall.
I want unlimited gas and endless daylight.
I want to have tears left to shed.
I want to catch this nervous energy and put it into something, bottle it, and save it for when I want to sleep for years.
I want you to stop reaching, stop pulling, stop. Stop.
. . .
I want the week off of work, and a pay check twice the size. A bottle of rum, and a case of Coke, 3 cartons of smokes, pizza, and a new pair of fuzzy pants.
I want a party bigger than Spundae, bigger than 1015 Folsom, bigger than the DNA Lounge, bigger than this city, filled with people I don't know. Except I want everyone to love me without expectations and eventuallys and somedays and more-times.
. . .
I want the fucking golden ticket and the midgets without having to listen to the fucking singing.