Photo By Erik Ljung
The world will hang a number on you, that’s for sure. Between how much your worth, or not worth, between where you fell or where you began. There’s busted flats and shattered blocks and a million treasure piles of endlessly discarded hope. The tape unwinds and leaves only questions.
Age lines run faster and roads stretch longer, and the wrinkled dust collects, pooling in a swirling bowl of after-closed and sinking thought.
The world will hang a number on you between Caddys and other beautiful things all gone, where once we had a lot to say and dreams for things that would not be returned.
There are instances where the love is lost and fewer matched in full. It won’t be like this now cause we aint into that. The world will hang a number on that too. It will quantify what you think is precious and big.
No marriage, no dice, no money, no handshakes, no headshakes, no smiles and for miles and miles you can ask the same questions, ask the same reasons, ask the same pullouts and punchouts and crunch outs.
The world will hang a number on you, in your opinion, less or more, no matter. It a number, it’s yours.