One of these days, I'll move out of this place.
The Greyness making saving throws at my shadow, but my resolve concrete, and my vision clear, each step away being a decision. 
The television will dim, and the sun'll get hotter. 
And my skin will be tanner. 
And I'll smoke more of everything. 

One day we'll be sitting in my backyard, laughing at ourselves, for ever thinking we were "far away from this." 
We'll marvel at the greenness of the grass and the blueness of the sky and the anger of the heat and the deception of the trees. 
We'll argue about whether thirty can be as big as five can be small. 
We'll mix gin with our Newports and ash cigars into Dunkin Brand Styrofoam. 
The memories will blur, but the lessons stand steadfast. 

One day is often quite a few days away. 
Quite a few rounds of poker, about a thousand movies, a couple billion YouTube clips, and at least three unfinished projects. 
The slime gets thicker every day, and we're never given the assurance that our boots can take the inevitable torment. 
But once in a while, I can think of the future. 
I get stuck on tracing the outline you'll have two years from now, coloring it in with shades of pink and red paint, and writing your name over it in grease and alcohol. 
Hoping to make the image as permanent as the ringing of someone perpetually calling out for you, reappropriating all the muted spaces in my head.
And hearing it shouted, again and again, and seeing it written in places unseen, can somehow make one day seem more like tomorrow.