Hour fourteen and I'm ready to clock out-
Me and the rest of the crew.
But you...
You always want one for safety.
As if the last twelve hours didn't capture what you meant to say-
Stop repeating yourself in the hopes that you'll get it right this time.
The script is flawed and you're focused on all the wrong parts of the performance.
Not everyone is cut out for directing.
Your small-town-hopes are leashed by your sheltered dreams.
It's almost like no one ever told you that not everyone was gonna love you.
Pack your bags, country girl, and catch the next train home.
Because all of these big-city footsteps
Are going to walk over you and past you
And walk away, walk away and leave you behind somewhere
In the dust, I'd say, most likely alone
With the trash-bag-tumbleweeds turning in the background just for the effect.
Haven't you learned yet that symbolism means nothing
If there is no kernel of truth to back it up.
Substance just isn't something that can be taught, I guess.
Like good taste and talent,
It's all wasted on trust-fund kids with no real story to tell.
This one is overplayed and underappreciated, sure sure. Relax.
No one is biting their nails on the edge of their seat for your two-bit troubles.
Just who do you think you are?
You've contributed enough here that the place will be reeking of it for weeks.
And you can't paint a better picture fast enough
To cover up those scabs on your knees
From all those years kneeling to the wrong gods-
Gasoline, nicotine and roads leading
Anywhere-but-Home
You would have been better off learning to worship the sound of your own voice
And the callouses of your own hands
'Cause those are the building blocks upon which your talents can climb
Higher than any plant or bottle could bring you-
And it is upon the knotted shoulders of your own back
That you will be lifted towards a better future,
And not the flashy lies hidden between the aperture and the film plane.
They just aren't capable of giving you anything worth keeping anymore.
