I'd be willing to die, for something, but
I'm really not ready to live : this putting up
with things now gets tedious. What have I to
listen here for? The seat of my pants is worn.
People become tiring, in place. Everyone
swoons, this silly race. What reason is there
now for me to live? Nothing well that I can see.
but I am tired, and I regularly cede my motives
for the case of another : then I notice a crowd again.
Someone else has died. So what for my Ziggy Stardust
moments? Everyone wants to 'share' in what they never
owned. Thin White Duke, and Major Tom? Here's
the block of time, and there's the knife. Now cut me
a chunk of time, and cut it out. You ain't nothing but
a hound dog, no friend of mine, Major Tom's a junkie,
and that man who fell to Earth, he never landed anyway.