The guilt of waking late the anxiety of morning thoughts of filling a day with your own decisions
The guilt of the queue the long and winding queue hiding behind sunglasses won’t shield you
The guilt of being capable on a sun splitting day permanent vacation in a park with a book on the street just walking around
Knuckles scraped and gaping from wrapping on doors not listening Smile becomes a maniacle clown Questions loaded guns and everything sounds like a put down