Is that it, then?

Yeah, I walk on streets: I look for beats, yeah
held up in the lamppost—it’s that dirty orange glow—yeah,
a stranger in the eyes screaming as soul spewing as it can. Feel that?
A bit of spit cool my face, thinking
around the block and back to the doorstep—
go figure, huh? Headphones and music and constant shuffle—Yeah,
walking with my lack of words, nonnoises
weighted—or lonely—distracted,
ear drums bending and vibrating around Alright.
Such an airless concept—causing me to whisper to some dark spot
underneath the busbench on N. P.
Can’t hear my footsteps over the Pursuit of Happiness
but I envision my foot falls on synthed beat—
pounding to the pounding—Yeah,
in my head I can fucking dance. I’m better than anyone in this city.
So yeah:—
So I’ve started to notice my heels reach between the cracks, taking me back
distances—it hits in this coldness of lonely thought night: a—a what?
Is that it, then? The Meaning of Life? The Pursuit?
To feel young, to feel wide-eyed, to satisfy your essence
          over and over and over and over and over again?
at
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