The light is diffused where you sit; off days spent pondering a smoky room. Why aren't you running out of the building, screaming FIRE! FIRE!? If it weren't for the Dead End advice Leoni gave me, I'd have believed all this time you were the Zeitgeist Master. What a disaster that would've been. I'm sick of hearing the sad, old song of "It's Not My Business." Change the tune and update your ticket 'cause the station's left without you. Your train of thought is polluted. Stay in your ashen comfort, seated close to the flame, and eat all the cake on your plate.
Rlargusa: He lived louder than love.
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