Devote the day to nothing-doing, and do something else.
"Where are my bitches?"
"Where are my bitches?"
"Where are my bitches?"
"They're all gone."
Devote the day to driving around, just to stick to the seat, taking laps all around Atlantic Ave.
Minutes of Friday spitting out like calculator tape. With this many months of this deficit, years overdrawn, past due, if time is money then my life is a crime spree. And they'll never be able to take me alive; I spend every second I have getting away. The math saves me: I treat time like it's worthless and I have more time to myself than anyone could possibly ever need. When it's all said and done, I'll have wasted not just all of my time, but all of your time, too.
I am devilishly clever.
Hours of Friday in my little red pace-car, driving from place to place.
A hot Friday afternoon in the city, and the notorious criminal mastermind has executed another daring caper, this time in the Warden's own car! Now safely escaped to The Outside, he takes the weekend, lights it, takes a drag, and slowly exhales. The smoke curls it's way out the window in a loose slate-blue lanyard, and rising out over the roof it plumes decisively into nowhere.
All day Friday pacing around and with only echoes to keep time, reflecting every step for me off blocks of Raleigh walls while I walk my cell. Everybody is a jailer in uniform.
Stealing is a dehumanizing way to live. There more you take, the less there is. The less there is, the less there is to take. Soon, there's not much and then there's nobody. It's getting to the point where you can't even get a minute in a city of like a million people. You steal enough and waste enough and then nobody will give you the time of day.
How are you supposed to start over with nothing?
The instant you're born into the world they take your entire life away from you.
How are you supposed to start over with nothing?
Friday, trapped at the end of the week.
I'm just out for some sun, to hear some music I got.
"Where are my bitches?"
"They're all gone."
