At the cathedral door they will ask for my sins, so I’ll get out my pen and I will make them a list: I screamed before speaking, I never held back, but when shit hit the fan, I forgot how to act. My parents insisted “Don’t ever start shit,” but I started my share. And for now, I admit, I have locked myself in without God, without man, but if there’s a God listening, He’ll hold to––He’ll hold to my hand.
I bought these new clothes so that I’d look the part, and I forgot whole people to get my dick hard. I’ve lied and defaced, stolen and begged for more. I’ve sinned until slime was gushing out of my pores. I’m tired and useless, I don’t say what I mean, and I cling much too hard to my spite and my spleen, but if my crowd defects, and if all hope is lost, I will howl it to no one. It’s my turn––it’s my turn to talk.
I don't know my place, but I know I’m a lump of the clay. And I must be labeled so that they'll know me on Easter Day, standing just outside the blaze that will crown the golden gate at the top of the Chrysler Building, on the beach at Cape May. But on Earth it is almost Monday.
Wake up, Max, it’s no time to be sleeping. Wake up, Max, there’s much work to be done. Wake up, Max, I can’t do it without you. So help me God–– Wake up, Max, it’s no time to be sleeping! Wake up, Max, there’s much work to be done! Wake up, Max, I can’t do it–– You were the righteous one.