Let’s live like Hemingway and Hunter S. and fuck it all to hell. Let’s get drunk on cocktails in the afternoon next to the water. Follow the sun and laugh at the fog.

Stay up all night and talk about what never worked and what did and maybe scratch the surface of why and I’m sorry and what if.

Let’s pretend we’re friends. Stop talking. Kill six-packs and remember the good times, the old times. Pretend not to care. Pretend to care. Ache and let it show and then hide it all over again.

Because it can’t hurt if you tell yourself it doesn’t and you tell yourself you’re free. You tell yourself you have all the time and all the world and that nothing matters now.