Where are you?
Could you name this place?
The escalator breaks and everyone complains that they have to walk.
Your feet don't hurt yet.
You see your reflection in the glass window overlooking the city
And you don't recognize yourself.
You're just another faded face in the dark.

These little ants
In their yellowing house,
Speaking of revolutions
Talking about ideas far too big for their tiny heads.
They stutter and almost implode from the pressure
Of these unfathomable thoughts.

There are too many paintings on the walls.
Getting old puts a damper on things, doesn't it?
Some of us have bigger forces behind them,
Against them,
For them.
You're beginning to understand why some people don't get better.

If things were different,
If things were different,
If things were different --
Over and over, you tell yourself this.
You write it all over your skin.
You scream it, but no one even hears you.
You are starting to lose your voice.