…and there are no street lights.

Lighten up on the gas; there’s no rush to get home. Up ahead lay the death of a season blanketed under a tree lined horizon. Blood shot caffeinated eyes claw at surrounding silhouettes; mortarboards and bullets. I feign sleep when all is silent. It’s better than waking; better than reliving each recycled day anew.

Advice comes from tongues not afflicted with the silence of failure. Despite how much it hurts to admit defeat; I will rise above and no longer renege on my future. Despite how much it pains me to acknowledge this hardship is my own design, I must press on.