A grand entrance through the door marked "exit"

There seems to be a bittersweet tension between the youth in this room. That we all have the same idea on the tips of our tongues but cannot quite speak it. So instead we consume poison and spirit away to the past. Reveries of immaturity and spelling mistakes.

I can smell the excitement and fear as I stroll between breathing spaces. I can hear the fruitless attempts at social interaction way past its prime. These memories will never be ripe, just a glimpse at a last ditch effort toward no goal.

We are merely youth in revolt at our own decisions. Balancing the existential and the monotony. I can see it, even in the mirror.