facing new york
we are
We are the young men, we are the desperation. We are a nervous wreck, we are the anxiety. We are the broken coin, the begging boys at your door.  Call me the wasted time, the aging adolescence. Call me a bad sign of everything that's to come. Call me the crooked line, the field of ice.  And I know I must move on.  We are the broken hearts that got lost or set astray. We are the unemployed, still tangled up in our dreams. This is a new sign, the last changing of the day. It's time to grow up, and move away