Re-control presumes collectivity has dated before
But past suns don't dwell in pockets and VCRS
No story tells anything new again nor could it so
Chronos gather more eyes than a woman's breast
Though no one is quite sure of which direction to run
Imagine a blur, mixed with voices, sounds, and light
Playing backwards like some carnival ride on tape
Morning coffee tastes like lunch and then evening calls
Phones ding with greetings from faces never seen
While fires are blown off next year's birthday cake
The mounting collections of dresser top trophies grow
Mostly gum wrappers, receipts, little bits of fuzz
Insignificance rewarded on the grounds of ownership
More needless shapes to show that life has come together
Except the people watching seldom care for such
Next the bus man is taking up all tickets down the aisle
The air is stale and the light is dusky, flies all around
Same tired expressions dance across each blank face
Once people knew where it was they might be going
However, now it is much too late that one should ask
Doors are shut, the air is cold, and death is never late
