psuedo-guru

I hear microwaves a-bouncing up and down the hallway Sent from satellite so far away on distant plane. They're asking me if I know the opposite of time, but I cant find an answer, won't they let me run away? The funny thing is that I run to and from the answers Everybody's running, running to their own decay Time to death, existence, body organs being eaten, Slowly rotting, our Saturday mornings drift away… I splash my fangs impatiently, this plaque does need a killing It doesn't know that it will not be around for good. Here, black ink and paper, my reality is waiting, I can own the flesh, the feasting; here time still is stood.