It's late, that magic hour when you can't erase the image from your mind and the bumps in the night just grind up against the static screen. I scream but no one hears and if they do it's always: "You didn't even try to hit the right note."
Slowly, I learn to operate my new remote control. Not as intuitively designed as the last one, or is it just that I got so used to knowing which buttons did what I desired? It's a sticky situation. I reap. I sow. I apologize for things I don't remember. There are no more stories to tell, only versions, perversions...
Why did I promise to meet my burdens half-way? Like father, like son, a boy needs his martyr and I, in my infinite patience, invite him in. So eager to please and release, I am not a billboard, magazine or even a can of peaches, though I can be sweet. Like I said, it's a sticky situation. My nature is more elusive, a mystery for the sages.
I tore the page, I broke the bread. I prayed and lied and wet the bed.
I stood on stage and bared my soul. I killed the king and choked on fools.
When a Diva dies, she burns her image in your mind. She hits the last note just right and then she says: "Goodnight." So I rinse and I repeat: "Goodnight, sweet prince," then cry myself to sleep.