Why don’t you put some Neil Young on and drift to the country. Fade away on that northern breeze. Car wheels turning, twisting down pine lined lanes. I’m on the road to some predetermined destination, courtesy of the fates, blindfolded and stumbling, slouching through the void.
Why should I be happy about leaving this crumbling house? Why on earth am I expected to sprint out of the starting gates into the arms of the rest of my life? There might not be anything left here for me . Only your smile and faraway look in your eyes. Can’t you make something out of nothing? Salvage the scraps of the past four years into some sort of world weary quilt … battle worn and impossibly soft. Wanna help?
Too many rhetorical questions aint good for your health … that’s what I hear.
I guess I’ll stop.
See you on the other side. I’ll send you a postcard when I get there. Hows about that?