Expectations don’t suit me.
They’re a welcome mat that hangs out on the doorsteps of failure.
And that welcome mat has been thrashed.
And it’s been vomited on.
It’s been spit on.
And on the surface it has layer upon layer of dried tears that were cried by angels and gunslinging optimists.
You can’t burn it.
You can’t discard it or
give it to your enemies.
No.
Those are your failures.
And mine.
They belong to us.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 