Parameters Lyrics - Knuckledown - Ani Difranco

Thirty-three years go by 

And not once do you come home 

To find a man sitting in your bedroom 

That is 

A man you don't know 

Who came a long way to deliver one very specific message: 

Lock your back door, you idiot 

However invincible you imagine yourself to be 

You are wrong 

Thirty-three years go by 

And you loosen the momentum of teenage nightmares 

Your breasts hang like a woman's 

And you don't jump at shadows anymore 

Instead you may simply pause to admire 

Those that move with the grace of trees 

Dancing past streetlights 

And you walk through your house without turning on lamps 

Sure of the angle from door to table 

From table to staircase 

Sure of the number of steps 

Seven to the landing 

Two to turn right 

Then seven more 

Sure you will stroll serenely on the moving walkway of memory 

Across your bedroom 

And collapse with a sigh onto your bed 

Shoes falling 

Thunk thunk 

Onto the floor 

And there will be no strange man 

Suddenly all that time sitting there 

Sitting there on what must be the prize chair 

In your collection of uncomfortable chairs 

With a wild look in his eyes 

And hands that you cannot see 

Holding what? 

You do not know 

So sure are you of the endless drumming rhythm of your isolation 

That you are painfully slow to adjust 

If only because 

Yours is not that genre of story 

Still and again, life cannot muster the stuff of movies 

No bullets shattering glass 

Instead fear sits patiently 

Fear almost smiles when you finally see him 

Though you have kept him waiting for thirty-three years 

And now he has let himself in 

And he has brought you fistfuls of teenage nightmares 

Though you think you see, in your naivete 

That he is empty handed 

And this brings you great relief 

At the time 

New as you are, really, to the idea that 

Even after you've long since gotten used to the parameters 

They can all change 

While you're out one night having a drink with a friend 

Some big hand may be turning a big dial 

Switching channels on your dreams 

Until you find yourself lost in them 

And watching your daily life with the sound off 

And of course having cautiously turned down the flame under your eyes 

There are more shadows around everything 

Your vision a dim flashlight that you have to shake all the way to the outhouse 

Your solitude elevating itself like the spirit of the dead 

Presiding over your supposed repose 

Not really sleep at all 

Just a sleeping position and a series of suspicious sounds 

A clanking pipe 

A creaking branch 

The footfalls of a cat 

All of this and maybe 

The swish of the soft leather of your intruder's coat 

As you walk him step by step back to the door 

Having talked him down off the ledge of a very bad idea 

Soft leather, big feet, almond eyes 

The kinds of details the police officer would ask for later 

With his clipboard 

And his pistol 

In your hallway