The line has been drawn in the sand
The die has been cast
Loneliness mustn’t become our national pastime
Living is easier said than done, death a mystery we mistake for the unknown
Think about before you were born
Think about the lasting impressions made when we own up to our shortcomings and admit we’ve been defeated by our own self-doubts
The blood on our hands is not a metaphor and the red paint my grandpa covered everything and anything with doesn’t excuse the mistakes made when we allow ourselves to be ruled by fear
We connect because neither one of us will accept anything less than the truth when everything is on the line and the lions outside of the library refuse to check out any more knowledge to us
Even Bogie and Bacall hit a rough patch every now and then and alcoholism was definitely a factor as was the life of two Hollywood legends being placed under a microscope and dissected for sport
What if we disconnected ourselves from past traumas and did our very best to squash the little voices in our heads, feeding into all of our insecurities?
What if we braved the cold of a last cigarette and stopped pretending we had all of the answers and a winning lottery ticket?
The line of residual guilt exhausts folks like us as we delve deeper into the fondness of fondue and the heartbreaking moment we realize we’re lactose intolerant
The die-cast toys only remind us how fragile we all are when everything is crashing and burning around us and our inner strength calls in sick for five days straight
I’m not interested in rounding the bases if I’m returning home to a partner I barely recognize.
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