Young Professionals - Typesetter

It’s getting old, what with the dark and drugs in the fold, the dogs in their

heat and the ace up my sleeve and the hole in the house where the couch used to

be.

So shallow, there’s no point to remember all the hollow sins we commit in the

places we live cuz I am one fucking fortunate fortunate son who isn’t usually

one to mind sitting here in the twilight.

But someone said we could get away.

I don’t think I believe them but if that’s the case I know I would.

So it’s the fucking daytime, I’ve been told it’s beautiful outside.

Nice day for a bike ride.

FYI, I don’t think you’ll catch me anymore around here.

We’re all broken records.

Humming all the same songs all the time rather than change the track and

pretend not to laugh when someone suggests «you could be anything you want.

«Is it so naive to believe there are those who truly just want what’s best for

us?

Or is the hope that I hold to make more of these bones just nostalgia where

youth once stood?

It’s not a lot, but it’s what I got and maybe more than I should.

So where’s the fallout?

They don’t know a thing about retribution, condemnation or forgiveness,

just self-exemption.

And when you go out, just know I’ve thought all the sums of our parts and our

heart to hearts, and I truly believe in what we can become.