When you put aside your pleasures, and you shelve your favorite wines,
then you wish there was a thread to fasten up your fractured time.
'Cause the world is constant shifting, if it’s constant anything,
and you want to know your constant self to end the dizzy swing.
But you recognize your home is just a building where you stay,
and your name is just a trailing word that never goes away.
When you page through all your attitudes for long enough, you’ll see
that you only wear the masks because you saw them on TV.
So you peel away the borrowed lives, translucent skins that fade,
and you dwindle like an onion, losing layers to the blade.
As you cut into the center, and the last illusion slips,
does it make you sad to see how very little left there is?
Now that all the lights are finally out at bars and banks and shows,
and there’s no one there to care about your fine designer clothes,
and there’s no one left to notice your witty reparte -- but that’s okay,
cause you stole it all from Woody Allen movies anyway.
You wish that you could be a person fashioned by yourself,
and not a scrapbook pasted up by everybody else,
but these dreams fall all to pieces in the bright light of the sun:
You can wish that you never left the cave, but you never can return.