And with your patience wearing thin, those Royals in the blue box cook you gently like they have so many times before on windy evenings when the lights shimmer and gloat, when the wind blows and your hair is all over the damn place so that you want to shave your head.
How many times have you been here? How many times, sitting in this seat, singing this very song, watching the wipers on the glass and the refuse on the pavement as you careen along, running from your memory, running from your pause. You are the forgotten boy, forgotten by your todays, forgotten by your tomorrows, forgotten by yourself.
All that you remember — all that you know is the taste of those Royals in your mouth and the chill of Minerva’s white touch on your cheek, pushing you along to God knows where. To Gods know where. You of the road, you of the battlements, you of the whining, whimpering many, you of the first floor club.
Alone in your box, you’re biding your time, counting the days until only your fallen mother and the friends you left behind once so long ago, on the playground, in the neighborhood, in the little red building of candy and songs know what. Twenty years after the wandering, twenty years after the bicycles and the graffiti and the laughter you are still here in the wind, you are still in love with your solutide, in lust with your solitude, grimacing and longing with the sound walls and the barriers and nobody
will save you.
You don’t want to be saved anyway. Those Royals are calling you. They’re calling you. And everybody else will be left behind to fade into the deconstructed cocaine black.