Hanging from the ceiling fan

Spinning round…what a trip, man.

Your world is whizzing by so quickly.

You’re so out of control…almost sickly.

White lace bound hands behind you

Made this life for yourself, so abstract and askew.

So delicate are your bindings

And yet you can’t break free

You’re just holding yourself back, pushing yourself farther down…

Can’t you see this?

I have some questions

Things I’ll never understand

But I’m tired of waiting for an answer

Left it sitting in your hands.

So when you get back to life

Call me up and chat

But for right now I’m through with you

And that right there…is that.