But what if it doesn’t?
You think of the one that bailed.
The one that is going places.
You think of the time there was at least the hope of glamour.
You think of the time there might have been excitement in store.
You think of the time the world had color.
There was a time when you were not bitter.
When music had not yet spent all its ammunition on you.
You do not suffer like an Auschwitz survivor, but you do suffer.
There is no clear way out of your suffering. Perhaps there is none.
And you feel guilty for suffering, because you have a roof over your head and food in your belly (although it’s rarely tasty).
It’s not for food you hunger, yet you stuff yourself.
You send out messages in a digital bottle. You doubt anyone takes notice.
You think of jumping into the Danube with heavy pockets. There are only two people you cannot do that to.
If only you could monetize your suffering. If only…
There was a time and that time is gone.
A most unusual sour aftertaste.
Not the kind that pussy is sour.
The kind that rotten lemon can still be sour.