We're sitting on the couches, lounged back and cynical and oh-so-smart in our purple haze. We're watching the news while bitching about the news, drinking while bitching about alcoholics, and playing smart while bitching about negativity. We're young, and the future is wide, and we're reveling in our dead-endedness. There's nothing more exciting, nothing funnier, nothing smarter, nothing more beautiful, nothing more euphoric, nothing more tragic. There's green smoke settling around us, and we can't decide whether the world is just beginning or just getting ready to end. Or maybe, of course, it's doing nothing - just existing, with no concept of time. And we - we're doing the same thing - trying to decide where we are - beginning, ending, or just being, stuck in some inescapable purgatory. Maybe we're all, maybe we're not.
We're genius tonight, all insight and cynicism and wit and brilliance. Whatever we say carries extra weight in the midst of the lightness, cuts through the haze we've arranged so carefully and so haphazardly around ourselves. Fuck, dude, twins don't always look the same. How does that happen? Our brilliance is hilarious, tragic. We're not sure which.
The air is starting to clear so we're starting to panic and planning our next one-liner, laughing ahead of time because just the thought of it is funny enough to bring the heat to our chest, the tears to our eyes. We inhale and relax, sitting on the couches lounged back and cynical and oh-so-smart. We're young and old, timeless in the sense that there's nothing new, and nothing old about us. Angsty twenty-somethings sat here, had these conversations, inhaled this smoke, drank that liquor, snorted those lines, ate those pills. They sat here then and will sit here again and so our questions of time and space are unanswerable and redundant and ridiculous and hilarious and wretched and beautiful.
The haze has cleared, for real this time, and our cynicism seems bitter and cruel now instead of witty and worldly. So we're wretched again, and all that's left is to watch time pass. A woman smokes crack outside, a cat sneezes inside, and we're still sitting on the couches, lounged back, cynical, and oh-so-dead.
Hey, someone tell me something weird. Preferably funny weird.
We're genius tonight, all insight and cynicism and wit and brilliance. Whatever we say carries extra weight in the midst of the lightness, cuts through the haze we've arranged so carefully and so haphazardly around ourselves. Fuck, dude, twins don't always look the same. How does that happen? Our brilliance is hilarious, tragic. We're not sure which.
The air is starting to clear so we're starting to panic and planning our next one-liner, laughing ahead of time because just the thought of it is funny enough to bring the heat to our chest, the tears to our eyes. We inhale and relax, sitting on the couches lounged back and cynical and oh-so-smart. We're young and old, timeless in the sense that there's nothing new, and nothing old about us. Angsty twenty-somethings sat here, had these conversations, inhaled this smoke, drank that liquor, snorted those lines, ate those pills. They sat here then and will sit here again and so our questions of time and space are unanswerable and redundant and ridiculous and hilarious and wretched and beautiful.
The haze has cleared, for real this time, and our cynicism seems bitter and cruel now instead of witty and worldly. So we're wretched again, and all that's left is to watch time pass. A woman smokes crack outside, a cat sneezes inside, and we're still sitting on the couches, lounged back, cynical, and oh-so-dead.
Hey, someone tell me something weird. Preferably funny weird.
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[Edited on Apr 22, 2005 3:15PM]