Waiting for Tomorrow

All of my money in the suitcase, and I turn away for a moment and it is all lost to me, all of my paper money lost to me, I've always wished to smile at paper money, it probably looks more interesting that it actually is, it doesn't own any of my feeling and it dies as it goes into another's hands. And midnight angel, with darkened eyes, looking like darkness, speak to me again, and sometimes I look at her sincerity and sensitivity with all the care of money. A jungle is alive with minds of thought and hearts of feeling, and in the jungle there is both ecstasy and depression, reality is inconstant and to be in touch with it, you have to change along with it. And sometimes as I change I can be hurtful, and sometimes as I change, I can be kind, and twilight will gaze at my soul and question and will advise on direction. In the barbed wire evening, other angels sing of love, and they thrill with their sound, and they have no eyes, so it is futile then to seek the truth within them, and I guess you just have to make some kind of sensual judgement, and afterwards at some critical point, questions arise, within the uncertainty, within the not knowing. Someone seems to look downward with strings attached, denying liberty, I wonder if John Calvin was right about predestination and how it is a mystery? And I thought that I heard an angel cry, and she shied from a comforting embrace, and then I became lost within myself, in that moment. And tomorrow sometimes takes its time in arriving, and it creates suspense, and some kind of anticipation. It sometimes isn't so easy to wait until tomorrow.