All the same.
The vibrant,
Nothing.
The same fucking people I see everywhere else I go.
The same culture.
I do not belong here.
It’s not for me.
The cocktails are poured the same, as an art-form that was made and built up over time.
I’m hanging out in all the wrong places it seems, spending money is bottomless pits of what actually is just statistics.
You’ve built so much for yourself, built it up good.
Have no one to share it with, no one to buy that lovely dress for as you walk past it on the streets.
You want it to be on someone.
You can see it.
You can almost see the face. You can almost tell who it is.
But it fades away as the reflections pass by and you realize you’re being looked at. You’re just staring at the dress, imagining a woman that loves you, cherishes you, and wants to be a team.
The dress is priceless and is nothing compared to the spins and twirls and curls that will bring about smiles on two humans’ faces.
But the store vanishes over the shoulder of he who walks alone, and instead of buying lovely things for lovely people he engages in “lovely” things for himself.
Massages, fine dining, exquisite bars with those wearing all black.
If he were a musician he’d play the blues on the guitar, knowing that playing the blues only made his sadness worsen.
That’s the life at present; in his world of working, trying and striving, for a higher quality living, yet for a standard human dying.
It’s all the same as the graveyard is the great equalizer of all mankind,
And Hell is the dwelling. What is the greatest fear of all?
“Will they get my hair right at my funeral?”