You’re aged thirty-two with your own bottomless bank account.
A pocket full of cash that’s digging a deep immeasurable pit into your pocket.
Spending ridiculous amounts on ridiculous things, no matter if it costs over a million.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own supercharged automobile.
Fresh new stainless steel alloys and rubber tires to burn at the turn of the diamond studded steering wheel.
Chasing the marks on the road as you drive off into your own endless oblivion.
You’re aged thirty-two with your own house in New York.
The doors of which let hundreds of guests pass through night after night into the never-ending carnivals rides of Coney Island.
But when they leave you standing alone on your peer, pensively pondering your past,
Reaching out for her green light across the misty filled lake.
Trying to work out how to bring her back, but only this time making it last.
She’s just across on the other side of the bay,
With no idea that the hole in her back is being burned by the fires of your eyes.
As you stand disguised staring into her yellow solar flare hair in the morning sunrise.
You’re aged thirty-two with an unfilled heart.
Longing for the girl that you should have never left in the start.
But she’s with someone new and she’s probably forgotten all about that year she spent with you.
You're just the distant memory reaching across the bay,
The one that the whisperers say was a lonely millionaire aged only thirty-two.