how nice it must feel to just simply wake up refreshed after umpteen years of innocent sleep where you were blinded by passing headlights as you took the long way home drunk off milkshakes and water bottles and german cologne and you wake up fresh faced in wrinkled white sheets and the neighbor ladyβs wind chime is calling your name and the sun shakes your hand and welcomes you in and pours you a drink as the next dream begins how nice it must be to just simply turn around to run your hands over pictures of your past and smile to wave at your decisions, laugh at your consequences clean as summertime white picket fences how nice it must be to breathe in a breeze instead of bleach to admire the etches in your palms instead of hiding them with yellow rubber gloves to spend whatβs left of your young years free of regret and not scrubbing a split second out of the carpet