As the gusts blow in from the south, ***** bundles huddle on the shore.
And as they rest their flea-bitten heads, they dream of a time before this.
When they were thought above stray dogs.
Their waking hours focus on today.
They focus on the rocking steel, as it clinckety-clacks the past.
They focus on eating.
They focus on the sun.
Women are a luxury when you're stark, raving, mad.
Of course, they don't actually think about any of that.
No one ever thinks about their unconscious decisions.
But they act upon it.
They act upon growling stomachs with fine point sharpies put to
dumpstered cardboard.
They act upon the holes in their jeans, following the sun like any
right minded bird.
They'll follow it all the way to paradise.
Surrounded by pink Taffeta dresses and protective boyfriends.
They don't need to ask for a dance.
They already left these girls.
It was in another town, and they had different names.
But it was them.
The ones that not only lit up the room, but sent the message that
you were somebody.
The ones who swore you were "the one" before leave with the one.
And that's okay.
Because maybe they never believed her anyways.
Maybe they never believed in "the one" let alone, "just one."
Regardless, that was in another time, at another place.
It's time to get focused.
It's time to get moving.
Only 10 more hours til we're hungry again.
