if you come home tomorrow and all the ashes and cigarette butts of the world are
not thrown away, I don't know if there will be tears or a nod of understanding.
Of a way when driveways were like the insides of houses, or really
just like our eyes and we don't need walls, no.
I don't even want to speak another idealistic dream. Its all that flows, with hope passed out on my couch. If this is what giving up feels like, I don't think I get it.
this is littered with don'ts i've noticed, because theres nothing more to do.
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