They all talk about that historic plane

That flew through the eye of the hurricane;

The brave pilot who faced that massive twister

Air and debris spinning like the Inception top

Crazily —

Teetering —

On the brink of sanity;

Or, perhaps…

Gone right on past?

It’s hard to tell at The Edge like that.

Either way, I have to say —

I ain’t no eye of the hurricane.

I am, instead, the air and debris –

The stuff that makes up that Wild Thing.

Spinning-spinning-screaming-spinning

(Perhaps too occupied with”winning?”)

The ego fights so I go on spinning…

Round and round and round I go…

So close to the center

(So very far though!)

And I long to be the historic plane;

The brave pilot who pierced the peaceful center;

For I have long known the dangerous Exit

But tell me, pray, tell me:

Where do I enter?