Got that postcard hangin' up.
A couple magnets hold in place all that's left of an unlikely dream.
My favorite form of torture, to read it twice a week; I think
I've sunken far beyond the point of a healthy mental state ever surfacing.
You're just a character now and I'm recreating
different acts where you snap out
of that motherfuckin' hypnotist's trance.
Up to the front stage take your bow.
Though you blew all your lines and scenes
no one cares you did it masterfully.
Hear it? They're all applauding at the improv you displayed
Meanwhile I'm pacing back and forth
another storyboard is drawn and left for waste.
World's best protagonist fails in every script I've written.
I'm trapped in repeat plot lines all
foiled by a motherfuckin' hypnotist's spell.
Keep your headlights pointed south. (repeated)

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