Laughing eyes almost crying, sensitive, inviting, demanding, promising… but we’ve got plenty of time. No hurry, we can eat, drink, talk. Everything is good. Nothing to fetch back… we understand. Everything. It’s all right. Nothing can kill that feeling. Nothing can stop us. Never ever. It’s like ginger and garlic, lemon and pepper… perfect. It’s so good it hurts. It’s hard to believe. It’s: I don’t deserve this. Plenty of time, because it’ll last forever. No need to push it. Just being near is more than enough. Electricity. Insanity. Oh, God, the smell of it.
So, maybe you’ve had that feeling. But when you have it for months on end, you start to believe it. You’ve thrown away the forces of time, like excess ballast. That is what I mean with plenty of time. Nothing to fetch back, and then you know: it’s real. Christ, it’s real, everything you wanted, all that you’ve stayed alive for, all you’ve fought for, no longer hopeless and in vain…! It’s in your fucking lap. It’s in your hand, and you don’t dare close your fist, for fear you’ll crush it.
Feelin’ good, goin’ to a party in a minute, see some friends, drink some wine, talk some shit. Oh yeah. Swim in the drink we call life. It’s good stuff, what we swim in. We can be happy not to be looking for the next little crawling grub to eat, to keep us alive. Happy not to be living in the fucking jungle. Be thankful for civilization, aye.
Listening to Dancing in the Head, from The Mekons.