Is it not possible that these colours that we've painted are meant to turn gray, and these roads we've walked will all be dust one day?
All our pages will be ashes, all our words- hollow syllables mouthed by some alien tongue.
Does it not make sense then to start on that run now?
To come out in the t-shirt and shorts you've slept in and take the next bus to that sleepy, foggy little town?
To start spinning in circles till we get too dizzy to even stand straight up?
