Nights, it’s still cold and still quiet.
On our rented balcony and imprecious time, while inside keeps glowing. I’ve spent my whole life wishing I would end up here and still, its pleasures and dangers are not enough.

At work, I’m writing a document they’re calling, ‘The most important prediction of the future of humanity,’ which claims that everything good we used to have will eventually be gone. Sometimes, when the wind picks up its wild dust, it’s all I can think about.

I drink my beer. I play my song. I leave a voice note in case a plane goes down, and someone I love doesn’t know it yet. The yellow lights illuminate the thin trees below and everyone’s recycling spills onto the street.

At the end of everything, when we all turn into birds, I just want to fly over my own life, look back and know
I did everything I could.