Check that pulse. Embrace this panic. "Am I dead yet?" I breath daylight and exhale at night.
My dearest Venice, I will collapse on your streets and you can make art of these skinned knees. We crash our cars like there's no tomorrow (and who's to say there is), and it's a broken and battered ballroom of twisted metal and falling ceilings. Inside, we toss and spin, dance by accident.
It may not be choreography, but , inertia has got our bodies moving and that's gotta count for something. Soon these cuts and bruises will become scars and leave a face only a surgeon can love and you won't want these worthless eyes.
They've seen no vineyards basked in sunlight, only a lonely Chesapeake and two hands soaked in misery. They said the sea air would help heal these lungs but spring is beating New England into a bloody summer like some sort of rapist gripping their victim.
What kind of man lets this happen? What kind of God? You thief. You villain. You mother fucking coward. We don't deserve this and you know it, you fucking know it. So no one's happy. So everyone loses. Check this pulse. Embrace this relief. Maestro, please, I could use something sad to walk away to.