Fainting footsteps, like wiping your finger across an old secretary desk - dust be gone, shimmer and glean to a surface of new. 

Reflect the inside, show what's really there. I'm afraid, because I know what shows, and how very uncertain this world turns.

A sun never sets - it only goes to another rise. Make sure that you only remember the things you want to, for fear that the truth will most certainly stab your heart in the future, when the cold winter of realization hits and you feel stone damn cold. Alone never felt so lost. Those are the times that ignorance breeds.

A slew of bargains and dilemmas always will cross the street, and you have you think past the neon signs and taco cart hot smells. Because, truthfully, clearing your eyelids and lungs never felt more vital. And the warming stream of that bourbon pour rushes so many things back to the front of your chest. Then, silence:

Summer air, no traffic, dark.

The jukebox doesn't play, the people don't speak, the dust starts to settle on that shimmer, and it becomes all too uncomfortable that this life you've gone down to is much like the backseat of a taxi, and red lights will be regular staples in learning how to land.

Jarred, hot, pissed - the locks only open from the outside now.

And the sweet waft of lilacs hit my face as I drive through the open streets of perceivable freedom into a land of home.