WAN It Move to Thailand, put the shades on, sunset skin and a rented dawn. Everything’s proper, polished, correct, tailored neatly to suit my effect. Here, it’s perfect. Here, it’s for me. A private kingdom by a private sea. No need to bother with all the rest, just me and mine, and that is best. Let the world drift, let the old ship sway, let storms roll in some other way. I’m fine, I’m good, I’m doing okay, I’ve mastered the elegant art of looking away. If the markets crack and the systems break, if whole lives drown in a banker’s mistake, I’m fine. I’m fine. What can I say? My coffee is hot, and I’m paid through May. If my neighbor’s dragged through a righteous flame, politely ruined in justice’s name, I’m fine. Unmoved. Untouched. Secure. As long as my own walls still endure. If children hunger, if old men plead, if whole towns wither for lack of need, I’m fine. There’s really no cause for alarm. Their sorrow, of course, can’t do me harm. And if I get sick? Well, money can speak. It smooths the strong and rescues the weak. I’ll pay my way out, I’ll buy my care, or let insurance perform its prayer. No worries. WAN it. Wait and see. The tide won’t rise high enough for me. The world can burn in its grand despair — I’ve got dark glasses and tropical air. So let it all sail where it’s going to go, the wreckage below, the smoke below. I’m okay. I don’t care. Can’t you see? It’s all politically perfect for me.
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