Tuesday, March 03, 2009

This is it. Hit is where it happens. This is where 25 is just a meaningless number because he has no one to share the cake with. This is where friends come and go. And go some more. This is where girls are friends and spaces would be better if they didn't exist. This is where there is no hunger because there is no food. This is where there is always water but no one to pour a glass to. This is where the taps only run cold and heavy, brittle. This is where people are paid for living lies, where people are rugs for being who they are. This is where a smile goes nowhere because everyone here enjoys the pity of frowns.

A populace of global cynicisms. Lining things up over concrete stairs to knock them into each other, down and down and down. The veins in your hands show what these sunsets cannot. And when everyone is worried about throwing celebrations, you just want to throw elbows.

When did lucidity become another diamond ring?

This is it.

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