OK now, what I really want to
say cannot be said : there's a
mischief table at the heart of
this world, at the center of
this Earth, in the soul of this
place. Those Hollywood kids
come here, late at night, washing
the dribble from off their glasses.
They bring their girlfriends along.
I know what goes on, even though
they're stupid enough to think I
don't. I wasn't born yesterday - and
I may be dumb, but I ain't blonde.
I wonder, is that how that goes?
They each drive shiny cars, and
I can see this world reflected
off the surfaces. I think, truly,
that's the thing they miss - that
all this world is that, nothing
but shiny surfaces with things
reflected. They move around
and then disappear. The world
is an image of itself, neither far,
nor near. It just is. Doesn't matter
how many stickers you've got
on your car : college names,
pithy slogans, parking decals.
They're all going away, and sooner
than you'd ever imagine if I had to ask.
If I had to ask, you couldn't say.
But that's OK now, that's OK.