This right here feels similar,
To the last line of some story that I read,
The finishing credits of some movie.
This right here is my haven of faces,
It is my shrine of solitude.
Every time I enter my room,
John and Yoko wish me merry Christmas,
And they tell me that war is over but only if I want it.
On the other side, Sartre is puffing on his pipe
And his eyes seem to be judging Dali by the flowers on his mustache.
Brando is the Wild One to me still,
And he stares at me from behind his motorcycle.
This right here, is what has made Borges fall asleep in his library,
He looks peaceful, and above him,
Camus is wide awake, alert as he asks me for a light,
And Picasso is playing with his food staring at cubes in the corner.
Alfred has crossed his arms and there’s a crow upon his knee,
While he’s staring at me,
This right here is how,
I’ve come to fill the void of not being who I am
Frank constantly keeps telling me to do it My Way,
And The Beatles believe that love is all I need,
And it seems that Bob Marley tends to agree.
Hemingway’s drowned in work,
And I try not to disturb him or Dickens, sitting behind his desk.
Carver is here, and he looks all too serious for me to joke with,
And so, I look passed and drift to Marquez, oh Marquez!
I can always rely upon your smile.
I can always hear Malraux saying,
“There’s always a need for intoxication,”
Well, this right here is mine.