Never made it. Neither did anythin' else. It's ours. All our work is ours. I guess we'll never share. There's no need to. 'Cept for the lyrics.
No point in gettin' anythin' out. What's it to us? What's anythin' down here to us. . .'cept for an inconvenience.
Oh, the food and shaggin's nice, but when we get back home; not havin' to eat is better, and shaggin' is superfluous. It's a biological drive to keep the species goin'. It's a thing o' the Physical Realm. To keep they cycle o' reincarnation spinnin'.
In some ways I'm excited to get home again, yet in a strange way I'm detached. It's a paradox I can't define or explain. I feel a strange calm.
Now I better close off before I'm dragged out of the chair and carried off by someone smaller than I.
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