who the hell knows

I want to grow up and live in some shitty little apartment with people I don't know. Maybe we'll have a balcony that only fits two plastic chairs and we'll sit out there and play our music until the sun comes up. All we'll have is eachother and a gallon of milk in the fridge. We'll buy chinese food from that place around the corner and fill up our lungs with cigarette smoke. We'll go on adventures and meet new people on the street and we'll go to the mountains and think about how small we really are. We'll have art supplies scattered about our empty floors and surround ourselves with paint. And I'll have my words, my journals piled up in a box in the corner of the bedroom. Maybe I'll write a book and change the world. I'll write what I see and I'll make it beautiful. And then even though I'll get a paycheck in the mail and we can live somewhere better we'll never want to move, even when the floors turn yellow. Because home is home. So that is what I'll do, late at night or maybe on those foggy afternoons where we can't see the city. Sleeping in this little apartment and waking up believing everything will one day be okay.