It’s the magic time again, when the sky blushes and even if it’s still cold, I can pretend another season altogether.
When will we flee this concrete sadness? How will we ever find a way to hit the broad? Where the hell will we go? Shall we plan, or should we sneak like thieves in the night and make a break for it?
Oh, my love, my longsuffering love, I wonder at times how anyone ever gets out of here alive. And then I remember: none of us do.