It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional. This may have nothing to do with the acts we have committed, or the humors we do go in and out of. It may be only the room — a cube — having no persuasive powers of its own. The room simply is. To occupy it, and find a metaphor there for memory, is our own fault.
“I read the play, hatchet job, but you work with what you got
Life is just two quarters in the machine
But either you got it or you don’t, that’s the thing
I was still hittin’ the buttons, “Game Over” on the screen
Dollar movie theater, dingy foyer, little kid, not a penny to my name
Fuckin’ with the joystick, pretendin’ I was really playin’
Pretendin’ I was really playin’
Pretendin’ I was really playin’“
billy woods | “a day in a week in a year”