In midair.

I have nothing - save this swirling, whirly-gig, this Kubrick Ferris wheel, this crazy mandala, spinning, spinning, spinning, I tells ye. What do you have? Examine your condition, you may be missing out. Nah, you're better off with your all-purpose, well worn, Wonder bread linearity. Maybe you should stick with that. It seems, for all practical intents and purposes, to be working for you. I could be wrong. I often am.
What I have - nothing, remember, nothing but this crazy wheel - doesn't work right, isn't helpful, can't be trusted, is ragged and unruly, jumps up and grabs you, tosses you off, carts you to the edge and flings you about. It's wild and solemn, it's wicked and smells faintly of a languid demise.
Is it any wonder I try to insert benediction into this miasmatic maelstrom? This tumultuous cartoon? You've seen me hanging, in midair, over the canyon, flapping my arms. I'm ill suited for this type of existence. I need wings, like Icarus, so I can zoom toward the drama of my fiery ultimation. I know the way, believe me. I live to be nailed to the wall.
I no longer pray for catharsis. I am what I am. It is what it is. Being - with no reason, no expectations, no meaning, no promise. If I were younger, healthier, another person, the person I was, I'd be out dancing tonight - for no other reason than that I could.