When I put my image on the tele, when I put a person up to view—bend the corners, lift and fold and carry what I give. I don't have any proof of existing, ever existing. I just like to listen, give a listen, give a little listen. Sometimes I don't really feel like keeping up appearances. When you don't look real, then you're dead. I don't look for answers, I just know my place. What I like is all I can remember, all the other things just slip away. I wonder if I know what makes me happy, better off if I don't have to choose what I want to keep around, I think it's just an instinct. So I don't know why I keep on dropping and picking up the grievances. I'm as cracked as I am alive. Maybe I don't show it, I just tell, tell, tell. When I figure out what makes me real, then I guess I'll flaunt it. Put it up for everyone to flip past. I can't keep living this fast when I see my neighborhood watering itself in the dirt. I tell myself I'm rooted, I just root for it. I just root it on.