What's in a god damn day?
Ten days ago, I was in the
backseat of
a 2008 Chrysler Minivan.
One hundred days ago,
I was stumbling and
climbing in
Burlington,
reborn.
What's in a god damn day?
What's in a god damn day?
Three hundred and sixty-five days ago, I was trapped,
homeless and loveless,
in a private, Stepford-studded
sort of way.
What's in a god damn day?
You tell me--
but I've learned that while my streets may change,
the concrete is always the same.
One thousand days ago,
I passed the baton to Richie Sullivan,
thus turning my wild,
private reality
on its dainty little head.
Five thousand days ago, I learned that
Gregory was going to New Zealand
for three hundred and sixty-five days,
give or take a few. But
what's in a god damn day?
What's in a god damn day?
Yesterday I spoke with Janina,
today I did the same,
and tomorrow I will speak with her as well.
Yesterday I did not speak with Conor McCall
or Brian Gagnon
or Julia Ginsburg
though I knew them all once.
I will not speak with them today,
or tomorrow, either.
What's in a god damn day?