this is a story of the road that goes to my house
i've discovered a breeze in between the smallest crevice of two buildings that lye in san francisco. a breath of fresh air that seeps from the gutters of the city and brings warmth during the most crisp of moonlights. it never seemed so strange. but i'm waiting for the bomb to drop on me. i'm waiting for the stench of built up waste to take over. i'm counting down the hours, even the minutes until those walls cave in on me. so i'll sit on the curb of this cobblestone side street with my knees to my chest groping a cigarette. maybe he'll come through and save me like he's shown me that he can. maybe he won't let me down like they have in the past. maybe i won't run my fingers along the rusty nails that keep the structure together. 1000 miles seems smaller and smaller everyday.