Do I stress you out?
My sweater is on backwards and inside out
and you say how appropriate.
I don’t want to dissect everything today.
I don’t mean to pick you apart you see,
but I can’t help it.
There I go jumping before the gunshot has gone off.
Slap me with a splintered ruler
and it would knock me to the floor if I wasn’t there already.
If only I could hunt the hunter!
And all I really want is some patience,
a way to calm the angry voice
and all I really want is deliverance.
Do I wear you out?
You must wonder why I’m relentless and all strung out.
I’m consumed by the chill of solitary.
I’m like Estella.
I like to reel it in and then spit it out.
I’m frustrated by your apathy
and I am frightened by the corrupted ways of this land.
If only I could meet the Maker!
And I am fascinated by the spiritual man,
I am humbled by his humble nature.
What I wouldn’t give to find a soulmate,
someone else to catch this drift.
And what I wouldn’t give to meet a kindred.
Enough about me, let’s talk about you for a minute.
Enough about you, let’s talk about life for a while.
The conflicts, the craziness and the sound of pretenses
falling all around, all around.
Why are you so petrified of silence?
Here, can you handle this?
Did you think about your bills, your ex, your deadlines
or when you think you’re gonna die
or did you long for the next distraction?
And all I need now is intellectual intercourse,
a soul to dig the hole much deeper.
And I have no concept of time other than it is flying.
If only I could kill the killer!
All I really want is some peace man,
a place to find a common ground.
And all I really want is a wavelength.
All I really want is some comfort,
a way to get my hands untied.
And all I really want is some justice.
Se davvero avete voglia di sentire questa storia, magari vorrete sapere prima di tutto dove sono nato e come è stata la mia infanzia schifa e che cosa facevano i miei genitori e compagnia bella prima che arrivassi io, e tutte quelle baggianate alla David Copperfield, ma a me non mi va proprio di parlarne. Primo quella roba mi secca, e secondo, ai miei genitori gli verrebbero un paio di infarti per uno se dicessi qualcosa di troppo personale sul loro conto. Sono tremendamente suscettibili su queste cose, soprattutto mio padre. Carini e tutto quanto – chi lo nega – ma anche maledettamente suscettibili. D’altronde, non ho nessuna voglia di mettermi a raccontare la mia dannata autobiografia e compagnia bella. Vi racconterò soltanto le cose da matti che mi sono capitate verso Natale, prima di ridurmi così a terra da dovermene venire qui a grattarmi la pancia.
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