I wonder, how's it done, though

I wonder, how's it done, though, living predictably, sanely… It kind of works out, sort of, but it ends at the dress code. I wonder, how's it done, though, suddenly starting to talk concisely. It's kind of clear, sort of… a cliff is growing in someone else's garden. Sometimes I perch up there, legs dangling, when my own gets old. Or it's just the cats — if they're shut behind the door too long — begging and scratching, a knife to the heart…