Like pseudo-believers in love
We’ve been through our holes-in-the-walls and the dives
Where you drink to recall what you once had a vision of.
And we talk of our lives in a prison
Though we both know it’s better to be
Safe within our indecision
Than taking the risk to be free.
And you were to be a great poet
And I’d find my fame in song
But we somehow saw failure more closely
Than fame all along.
And now you manage a hamburger stand
And I haven’t found steady work yet
And we meet here to talk and pretend
That we know no regret.
But how much is chance
How much would you decide
How much is murder of our dreams
How much is suicide?
So you ask of my latest Top 40
And I ask of your latest great fiction
As I step outside I see that the moon is full
I have to laugh at the contradiction.
Well, at least we can laugh at our dreams
Though it’s really much more bitter than sweet
Sometimes through all of this fragmentation
I imagine what it feels to be complete.
But how much is chance
How much would you decide
How much is murder of our dreams
How much is suicide?