You eat caviar.
And I mean actually eat it, as in you enjoy that morbid stuff.
I watch you with a keen interest, laced with fascination and undertones of disgust.
Music plays in the background, some remake of a classic beauty,
subdued and disheartened by a voice that was born into stardom.
Not much fairness in that.
Suddenly, I've got the boom box blues, and I can't help but want to cry all over the speakers.
Maybe then something would grow, watered by my emotional discourse.
Some kind of music plant, a singing clementine perhaps,
like Julie Andrews dressed in an orange silk gown,
twirling her tongue to some moonlight melody.
That would be nice.
Your still eating caviar.
And I don't think you've ever considered eating the stereo like I have.
To ingest sounds, now that would be a feat.
Surely even Elvis would applaud me in his grave.
Oh well, if you like fish eggs, then you eat them to your hearts content.
I'm going to push the stop button, and see what I can make of silence.