A small attic is all I can afford.
It is barren and dusty.
But it keeps out most of the rain.
It is more than has a friend of mine.
Sometimes, we sit.
We breathe.
We pretend this world isn't such a terrible place.
In the dark because we have no candle.
We dream.
We think of what we could have someday.
If we ever make it out.
We have five jobs between us.
One of which is surviving.
Another is not crying.
But we like it without a candle.
The dark is much more real.
It shows us the truth.
It shows us our souls.
Are you scared of what you could do?
If you ever made it out.
We are terrified.
We could move out.
We could forget this place.
We could move on and never look back.
Never look back to see who filled up the space.
This space we would leave behind.
Never look back to remember the pain.
Keep our hands to ourselves.
Never reach back to help someone up.
Because it is misery.
It is misery to see this place from somewhere higher.
So low.
So dirty it is.
If we ever made it out, why would we come back?
The darkness shows our souls.
We want out.
Why should we come back?
The truth is black.
Blacker than the smoke of a candle.
Men can do the most horrible things.
Without looking back.
Call it surviving.
Call it not crying.
We only want out.
Out of this wretched hole.
We dream in the dark.
Sometimes, when it's raining.
Does it scare you what you could do?
If you were driven to it?
Does it scare you that once you were a child?
That men come from innocent things.
Things that grow to be us.
With eyes that cannot see the dark.
But we know the dark.
Yes.
We want out.
But sometimes we dream.
And it would scare us to get out.
What do we know?
But the dark.
What do we know?
But surviving.
Not crying.
Men can do the most horrible things.
In the name of those things.
In the dark.
In the attic.
Sometimes, in the rain.
We sit.
We breathe.
We pretend this world isn't such a terrible place.
Sometimes, we believe it.
But we have five jobs between us.
One of which is getting out.
Another is not getting out.
What do we know?
But dying.
