The fakery has disappeared in a mess of alcohol and holding sobbing bodies in darkened rooms, hiding them away and listening to the stream of broken record thoughts again and again. The warmth of each other in the midst of the struggle but the conflicts and the seeping anger biting through the bullshit and the ridiculousness of the overdramatic. The kind words of friendship growing unimportant in the wind and tears and complications that litter the city that once we controlled, but no longer kings we live under the towering landscape that swallows us up with all the other noises. In between the buses speeding past and the birdsong and digital cries of clubs, the whispers of fragility are lost until everyone screams silently to themselves. Maybe then we'll make sense.
Giving in and giving up because the gravity of others' needs is tearing apart the weight of what's important, and stamping it into the ground under the feet of the seemless masses that huddle in the filthy streets like a confused crowd at a gig, and things are about to kick off. Everything you knew is changing, but this time unexpectedly and what was your hold, your handlebars, has gone.
