At the door

Sometimes you have to believe the fairy tale, kid.

Years past that lie. spent in a hundred directions. tired. listless. dough-eyed and dead to the men who shaped your strange discretions.

When you know smoke as well as a woman and whiskey's proved it's weight in late night friendships spilled on tattered pants you've long outgrown but just can't bring yourself to tear up once and for all.

Because, fuck it.

Scars are rations.

Tattoo's history.

The sediment you've dug and raised up as a home to pass through on your way to the grave without so much as a .45 to call out your fucking name.

But what would she say?

When she stared down your ghost. white and fearless in the hallway. ready for the ending. remembering the way you once looked at the sky and trembled knowing there was something bigger there. something great. something that could make you stand up taller than the man you were ten years ago and still believed the devil lived somwhere in the details of the wood that caught your blood soaked razor blades and introduced you to what seemed like madness but was really...

A chance.

A trial.

A mark on which to build the man who knows that when the morning comes you will face it with the dignity a son. a scholar. a scion of pride and great suffering for the sake of so much more than this mortal coil can claim.

You will be everything.

As you were meant to be.

More News From Nowhere.mp3