Either you stoke the fire or you freeze to death.
It's called a controlled explosion, and it happens in a little glass jar on your bedside table at 3 o'clock in the morning.
It rattles the bottle of herbal sleeping pills you need to believe
Will keep you under all night,
And plops the water in your little white cup,
And good morning to you, you've got a choice.
It's not a great time, true.
But really, what's a good time for a private apocalypse?
No matter how much advance notice you get,
You never know quite what to wear to the end of your world.
You turn over and twist the lid, and it's okay,
Because black is fine for every occasion,
And if this goes well the only witness is the mirror.
Good morning.
It's not a great time.
But great times are really set-ups in disguise, for jokes you can't pretend to laugh at forever,
And embers aren't so bad if you chase them with water and get it over with.
Because you've got a choice, but...
Between sliding down that ***** and swallowing your medicine with a little grimace like a good girl?
Honestly, what kind of choice is that?
And maybe after, you can turn over and set your sheets on fire trying to sleep,
And there will be scorch marks on your walls
But
When you rise
You shine,
And that engine just below your ribcage throws heat all ******* day
And...
It gets you places.
You've got a choice,
And yeah, it's not the best choice-
It's the fight inside or the loss out there, but...
Nobody likes to lose.
Not even lovers.