We all die the same. No one really grows flowers from their graves but we're all pansies, soiled by the dirt of hopes vested into unrealistic stars at night. And you took me by the hand and led me into the bookstore on the square, and I found myself between the cardboard. Heart beating for small fonts and graffiti letters on rotten wooden doors. Maybe flowers are growing there, from inside the heads of kids with far better futures than those hanging in front of me on black thread, boiling the air with the vescent gloss of winters and leaves long gone. I'm up to my shins in trash and up to my neck in excuses, always hoping to find a reason why I should never be the same, never again. Screaming circles frame the open fields, and whispering spherical expansion pushes forward through the wind. Insanity steeps in present, and I'm working on acceptance. Still-footed or not, stagnant, I'm done forcing it.