I dunno sometimes. It feels unfair, y’know. But I can’t pretend nobody told us. That we didn’t know it was coming. Just this morning in the paper, with those strikers gunned down like that… It was like bits of ash drifting in on the breeze. We’re going to watch the world burn. Hell, we’re going to be the fire.
Night makes for such delicious confession. Only the warm insomniacs inside, writing their muses into weary pages, and those few in the cold beyond. Who use the dark to play their own games deep past the witching hour. Inside is music, coffee, and self reflection. This three-year asana is drawing to its close. Existential tendons have already begun to draw into something different. Steeling for the years abroad. I’m headed overseas.