Not
      the  body
                   or mind,
consciousness
                       in communication
                       with cosmos.

Deserted recesses of the mind
Weary of the world in kind
A vehicle for morbid things
Yearning for the light it brings
Naked before the will of man
Evading fate and all her plans

I don't know what's going on
Mostly cause you don't tell me.
Really, people don't tell me things;
And it bothers me.
In case you haven't noticed,
I like knowing things.

I can tell you how to hold yourself on stage so you have presence.
I can tell you what the third derivative of of the position of a car is, and what it means.
I can tell you how to make people want to do what you want them to.
I can make music that sounds like sadness, or anger, or unadulterated joy.
I can make you feel strong, or ashamed, or beautiful.

And you know what else I know?

All of this means jack-****.
Because I can't help you.
Any of you.
None of you will let me.
Frankly I wouldn't know how.

But, you have a new ring,
And you have a new tattoo,
And you have a new scar,
And you have a lying problem,
And you probably have a drug problem.

I can't help.
I don't know how.

Some of will read this, some of you won't.
It doesn't really matter.
I don't think you know who are,
In both senses.

I don't know who I am either.

I doubt you do.
I mean, know me or you.

I think the first thing is,
Know thyself.

So you want my name then?

Which one do you want?

The one I call myself by,
Or what people call me?


Names have power.

And I'm only going to give you one.