After all these years, it just gets worse

My mistake, I think, is in the timing. And, well, when has it not been? I may both grimly and contritely admit that I consistently show up a day late, but will contend to my dying day that I am never a dollar short. I know it can never be a square trade, currency (in whatever form) for time, and I would be sinning to say the guilt has never crushed me into microscopic bits. What good does it do, please tell me, to rerun reels of my regrets, or yours? Film is brittle, begins to disintegrate after too many passes over the bulb. A smoking pile of crumbling ash is what you would leave of us. Ah, the hour is too early yet for rage to have returned, so despondency is what you get. See? The timing. I get that weeping amounts to nothing, I know my screaming and shouting won't keep you, and I'd go down on my knees, but it's no good to pine, so instead I make a sad, make a sad, make a sad sad song. We already have a catchy tune; after all, we cannot seem to get it out of our heads. And it will be no trouble remembering the lyrics of even such a long ballad as ours, what with this vast compilation of memories so dull and well-rehearsed.