I am sick of this place anyway, God knows, I was ready to leave before I'd even arrived, I am sick this taste, sick of the way I let the grey light in morning after morning when I know it doesn't change anything but the date, and I:
I am sick of my face; sick of the way I
coil up like a spool or a ball of wool. Your tools
are of no use, to you or to anyone.
Don't flatter me with your feigned concern; I learned to discern that from altruism long ago. I having nothing to do but sit here in this room of makeshift familiarity watching your shoulders heave and collapse like Rome or Pompeii; or anything else that was once great.
We stop and sigh for a second, and we just get on with our days.
Also, RIP Lou Reed; such an inspirational beautiful soul you were. I feel the need to share this elegy by the equally wonderful Patti Smith.