Tweet
A song was playing on the radio as Wesley walked into the kitchen on the second floor. He felt like a robot, moving through space without will, on autopilot.
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm going to a place that is already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down.
I'm so tired of America
It seemed strange. Music. There was still music. A ludicrous notion. An intrusion of order and beauty into the dark and squalling chaos.
I'm gonna make it up for all of the Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you America
The song was sad, yearning. That tidy sadness of art. Nothing like the truth of it.
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead America
I got a life to lead
Sad music offers hope. But there is no hope. There is only this. Moving forwards through time until you die.
Tell me do you really think you go to hell for having loved?
Tell me and not for thinking every thing that you've done is good
He flipped the switch on the coffee machine and watched the brown-black liquid drip down. He couldn't stomach food. The idea of purposefully sustaining life? another ludicrous thing.
After soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood
I'm so tired of America
(I really need to know)
The full cup was hot in his hands. He held it tightly, til it burned. It goes on. It doesn't stop. Pain. Breath. Life.
I may just never see you again or might as well
You took advantage of a world that loved you well
Love. That didn't die with her. He felt it growing, monstrous inside him. Perhaps he would burst.
That might be better.
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm so tired of you America
He was so tired. Wesley sipped the coffee. He walked to the door of the kitchen, intending to go to his office. Check on Illyria. Check?
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
His heart still had that mutinous belief. Perhaps she will be back. Perhaps Illyria will be gone. He walked away from the kitchen and the music faded, quieter and quieter behind him.
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
There was nothing to be done but continue. But it was too late. Everything was too late.
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm going to a place that is already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down.
I'm so tired of America
It seemed strange. Music. There was still music. A ludicrous notion. An intrusion of order and beauty into the dark and squalling chaos.
I'm gonna make it up for all of the Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you America
The song was sad, yearning. That tidy sadness of art. Nothing like the truth of it.
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead America
I got a life to lead
Sad music offers hope. But there is no hope. There is only this. Moving forwards through time until you die.
Tell me do you really think you go to hell for having loved?
Tell me and not for thinking every thing that you've done is good
He flipped the switch on the coffee machine and watched the brown-black liquid drip down. He couldn't stomach food. The idea of purposefully sustaining life? another ludicrous thing.
After soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood
I'm so tired of America
(I really need to know)
The full cup was hot in his hands. He held it tightly, til it burned. It goes on. It doesn't stop. Pain. Breath. Life.
I may just never see you again or might as well
You took advantage of a world that loved you well
Love. That didn't die with her. He felt it growing, monstrous inside him. Perhaps he would burst.
That might be better.
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm so tired of you America
He was so tired. Wesley sipped the coffee. He walked to the door of the kitchen, intending to go to his office. Check on Illyria. Check?
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
His heart still had that mutinous belief. Perhaps she will be back. Perhaps Illyria will be gone. He walked away from the kitchen and the music faded, quieter and quieter behind him.
Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
There was nothing to be done but continue. But it was too late. Everything was too late.
