waiting and waiting for the drums to start rolling for the song to begin. belt those words out, crack those sticks against the taut skin and pete townsend that electric guitar with one swift swoop of the arm. immerse yourself in that keyboard sound, a caleidoscope of notes, ride that carousel even if it's headed to hell. you're beyond wasted today, you're dragging your tail. and all of the no's are piled up in the corner discarded. and nothing's ever filled you up as much as that squeezebox sound, that thick manly voice, strumming guitars and raindrops from on high. you turn it up. you ride the scooter at the cliff's edge and how you want to steer the wheel just a little. towards nothingness. towards everlasting freedom. you want to go high. stay high. be there. leave all of the muck, all of the lies buried in the mud. and even if they tried to douse your wings of fire, suffocate that fire within, the glint from the middle of your eye pupil that falls into the green and onto your soft cheek down towards your mouth across the smoothe grooves of your neck will ignite your trapezius bury deep in the muscle fibers, get those myosin heads popped up take root and fountains of fuego will buoy you again.