Stop, stop, stop, like you’re fast asleep. What the hell is wrong with you? Will you just try; just try to be out about something more than yourself and against something bigger than me?
What’d you find when you went out looking under the scenery on top of the world for God? What’d you see there? Will you tell me what you are, or will you disappear?
Last winter was the shittiest on record, left broken down cars by the thousands on the roadside where the yellow grasses grow. They ain’t going nowhere now, picking rust from ice, and us, we are doing just fine; the radio plays so we’ll stay up till the stars come out. Sleep on some dirty leather seats, on leather and each other.
And if a meteor should fall in the wilderness, like heaven’s air striking us, the news will report a miss. Nobody’s coming looking for me. Nobody knows you exist.