The Sound of Fire

It was the year of the hero in a room full of zeroes were kicking up the dusty plans and the hands on the hand and the ocean of the bland in a can and we were downwind of everything. The coffee exploded on main street like a bomb and everyone was wide-awake enough to ignore the paper that said 200 people exploded in a bus down in Turkey. And the birds kept on crapping on the street and the baby kept on crapping in its pants and it screamed at the lady looking at the shoes in the window if only for a glance at a chance but we decided to give it all up.
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
And there was a black guy and a white woman running, tugging at the steering wheel of the station wagon of the free world. There were a bunch of equally uncommitted old men on the other side with universal answers to universal questions. We knew that the only answer was to move to California and start a band so we went to get more coffee to look cool because cigarettes didn't work any more. I had a fragile connection to all these people. We were all turned, swirling in the same bowl, and that's when I decided to give it all up.
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
Give it up for Jesus! He needs us! He knows the way!
Somewhere along the way, the lady looking at the shoes in the window looked back at the screaming baby with the crapped pants and they went searching for a warm, quiet place. The 200 people on the bus in Turkey had already exploded so there was nothing left to do about that. All the candidates remain tirelessly uncommitted and we remember that we needed another set of fitted sheets and another cup of coffee. Just then, an ambulance rushed by with a CEO that got a porterhouse steak stuck in his carotid artery while he was putting for a birdie on seventeen. Just then, it became clear that I needed tickets to the Polyphonic Spree. We were indeed a fragile army. I know you don't understand these thoughts. I can't explain the exchange of atoms, the will of the willful, the size of a cloud or the sound of fire. I give up.