Solipsism millionaires

This is the time in space before we're there.
I hoped to had the physics but none.
Still giving up on Earth, ol' rocking chair.
That mothball smell of why and left right here.
But still can't this tired place or wide awake, or tired place.
Generation of the ill to not be cured.

My brother's rubbing paste on his face, quibbler's waste, oh so tired of sheets.
Though before all at once, some of twice, heard heart's timer riddle.

I don't know how to say I'll lead you there, admitting peril was the key before.
We're all such me solipsism millionaires.
How would I like these words to save your life.
But what would you need saving fro or maybe it's our android art?
The wipe of household dust to make a sneeze.
Ears open for the next one.

Older brother states, sis' will see its crumbling.
Nor more mouth with paste, stabled horses will ride.