Sitting on a motionless boat, bobbing, futile. Smoking until we are reduced  
into galactic clouds of ash, being propelled only by future and talking about poetry and poets and literature and the classics until we fall under the impression that we might just know what we're talking about.  
Willing the days to fast forward unto something more exciting when we might not even know, just yet, what exciting means. Talking about
all of the cities to which we are going to travel and smoke more cigarettes
and drink red wine when, really, we can't stomach the taste of the stuff.
Breathing shallow, through the hours, as we dream ahead of adventures and being grown up. Watching the sky fade from azure to rose to indigo as we hope with each rising and falling heartbeat that reality won't burst our bubbles and squeeze tears from our saline drenched eyes.