Call it a scab on God's knee; a fly in his oceanic soup. Call it a miracle. Call it peaceful fluttery
things. Call it something polysyllabic, riddled with learnedness and
complexity. Call it a bitch, bro. Call it wasted, on women, on drink, on forty
years of drudgery. Or call it out for what it is, point fingers mutherfucker, get angry, call it shit
and stomp the ground that sustained you through it. Or
close your eyes, and call it a journey to the unknown, a test of the human spirit, a fight everlasting. Or call it nothing at all, man, sit it out, ignore it, call it a day; call it whatever the hell you want: an irrelevancy; a pinball machine; a beautiful narrative; a string of friends. Call it in a whisper, early morning, sipping coffee in the cold; call it out in the bright light of day, a hundred-strong, a hundred voices thundering life; or call it to yourself, silently, in contemplation of everything you've done, everything you wish you hadn't and everything your heart still yearns desperately to do. Call it life.
close your eyes, and call it a journey to the unknown, a test of the human spirit, a fight everlasting. Or call it nothing at all, man, sit it out, ignore it, call it a day; call it whatever the hell you want: an irrelevancy; a pinball machine; a beautiful narrative; a string of friends. Call it in a whisper, early morning, sipping coffee in the cold; call it out in the bright light of day, a hundred-strong, a hundred voices thundering life; or call it to yourself, silently, in contemplation of everything you've done, everything you wish you hadn't and everything your heart still yearns desperately to do. Call it life.
