Another day of rain, you wake early to hear it washing the windows, and fall back asleep until it's turned into a nuisance against your temples. Pull the string on the ceiling lights – in June, who ever heard of such a thing – and ignore the headache trundling across the top of your brain. You're back to believing the Universe is trying to tell you something, you just don't know what.
I'm a boat out of steam, a balloon out of air. I'm hell and a hand basket, I'm a hunger of picky eaters. The shoebox on sixth street has doubled in price, but I'm not looking to go back in time.
I only wish I knew
what there was
to look forward to.
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