just a torn piece we fight to glue up to integrity having no idea on how it will look when it's all stuck up together
just a dark tunnel we seek to counterstrike our way through to light having no idea how light feels like
just a wishing well
and a handful of stones
to throw down, and wait,
for an echo
which might or might not arrive
because everything doesn't
but some dusty buses do:
perfect, splendid - in anger and automation;
that's why we live
we chase music
we fight dragons
and we keep on living
until we don't.
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