As I obsessively search for some trace of a pattern
in the random etches of my life, as I yearn to feel the
comforting touch of some sort of foreshadow, as I
analyze the Freudian nature of my dreams on a scale
of one to lust, as I take note of the number of steps I take,
the number of hours I sleep, and the color of my socks,
as my id asks questions, and as my ego answers, I wait.