i mean, maybe you'll fall in love with everything you see and everyone you meet. maybe you'll pack up your shit, and i do mean all of it - the dead butterflies, all your pictures, those porcelain birds - and just up and leave. walk straight out the door, every minute another threshold, whatever. so you're leaving. and you say goodbye and everything, and you're gone.

and maybe it turns out that freedom ain't always as palpable as you imagined it to be. and maybe you won't always feel the wind in your hair. dirt or cocaine or whatever caught under your fingernails. and maybe the music don't ever build into a crescendo. so what?

so you're as quiet as a dead dog and you're wondering, god, how am i goin' make this work? it's foolish, you're ugly, something else is already going on, somewhere, the walls is closing in, can't hardly breathe and you're losing it. do you run for your life, or what?

yeah, it's nice to meet you. yeah, i love this. i love this ne-nu-nuh-nuh-newness! it's my pleasure. i am ingratiated to you because of all that 500-somethin' somethin'- miles of farmland. and somethin'. and then you place your bet and then you're fucking through, and the story never even got good. what next? the skyscrapers all just looming.

say you lost the gamble, and then what? is that when you really set off searching for that real, raw, tangible freedom? the punctuation between unresolved passions.

i thought it would happen and then it didn't (freedom)

i thought i had made it but then i hadn't (freedom)

i thought it sounded reasonable and then it wasn't (freedom)

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