we’ll crash our shiny convertibles into the edge of the horizon and laugh at those silly people sitting behind windows because it’s okay, it’s all okay as long as we have the wind in our hair and the sky on our shoulders. we’ll line up our rainboots at the door and leave our dripping umbrellas on the steps as we outrun storms in a frenzy of self-realization in the form of an identity crisis. on sundays, we’ll rub our eyes drowsily in the corner of an empty train station and think about the stories we’ll never write because there’s no time, no time! we’re fugitives, too busy running away from the thought of tomorrow, the thought of how long we still have to live. we’re ecstatic, we’re delirious, we’re captivated by the way our rough, patched-together skin looks in stark contrast to the backdrop of some tiny, tiny universe we live in.
ah, how temporary, how beautiful. how everything destroys, is destroyed, will destroy—we’re living proof of the unborn, the undiscovered. we’re talking about something big here, bigger than existence, vocal cords stretching across centuries but condensed into the taut string of a tin-can phone. let everything else burn, burn, burn all around us, we’re borrowed souls, already rusted and rutted on the inside and we’ve barely even started.
