Choices (waves)

Flimsy excuse, if you ask me.
Always delving, delving. How deep can you go? It can't go on forever - or can it?
See, I'm never sure of anything. I can't see how anyone can be.
And I always see both sides of an issue.

Choices are difficult.

A peculiar limbo. I've been here before.
I wrote the book that no one will read.
Matthew
Mark
Luke
John
Paul
George
Ringo.

Confetti like snow.
Days like gold.
Sing to me - somebody.

The tombstones are cold and meaningless. The ground is hard and dry.
A stuffed hippo sits on my shelf. My life sits with him.
Threadbare, shabby, crooked and cracked.
Hand-me-down and thrown away. And that's my best.
I'll retire to my room now and try to shake this thing.

But, I have dreamed the dream of the black stallion (with embarrassingly incongruent moose antlers), rising from the surf - an arcane demon - running you down with his hard, awful beauty.

Rock me, baby.
All night.
Alright.
AM and FM.