This phase is the slowest phase a slow dance song
could pattern itself with.
Not all but those souls darkening inside every
rooms after work is religiously cursing
that this is not everything should be.
We have plans:

Heroically-precised plans of an idealist when
he’s drunk and has to wake up at six in the
next morning and turn himself back into
a realist so he wouldn’t be expecting
something great to come.
The best part of it was he is and he was
an idealist at some point, not too frequent and
not so often.
And tonight he didn’t make much difference to you,
to me and to those poor kids the government couldn’t
handle but he thinks about it sometimes; about the difference
between how “he can’t do it but thinks of doing it” and
“enormous profits can do it but doesn’t even bother
thinking about it.”

So averagely unreliable he can’t be good at something
anyone would appreciate or at least make money
out of but he’s still there and sometimes
he’s a she. Doesn’t make any difference whether
a he or a she but their lives are meaningful
as a party lover’s or a narcissist who breathes
through attention that will never be filled.
...

They climb walls too.
They watch.
They sometimes write their
butts off.
They live.
They matter.
They are your belittled fans.
They were beautiful cosmic beings of space,
humbled enough to place themselves
down here and forgetfully
regret it and they still live.
...

I don’t know. Maybe this phase is just
so disappointing, I try to make something
inspirational about it and yeah, I failed.