(unmarked craves)

My brain is a suburban dream, still swinging wild the old rock and roll machine. wanting so much not to give a shit about tomorrow it's a wonder when the morning comes and saves me every time.

Almost a pity, reall.

Because night, babeez, is the time all my shadows come alive and i can steal away in cigarettes and wine to the days i fucked like a champion. to the times i held a dying man's last words trembling in my hands. to when i was young and bristling with desire to break out and shake up everything.

Will i ever?

I think i might. i think there's a chance yet that this scrap will find his hollering come forth in flawed creation. in words that kids will scribble on the inside of their doors to remind them why it is they have to just get the fuck out there and live.

Dirty. futile. perfect.

Destined for their own triumph.