Night lays upon your brow,
and all you ask is honesty.
The face reflecting is not
the one you knew growing up.
You stare across vast distances,
across the velvet sea.
You ask for nothing. Expect nothing.
In expectation there is dissapointment.
Expecting dreams and end points,
and rewards for attempting.
You cannot exist where the end begins,
better to exist here, now, better to press
one foot, in front of the next one.
Better to keep these fingers typing.
One fucking letter at a fucking time.