The day breaks hot and thoughtful, you wake with the birds and the dog. You begin again because all the dreams have left you. You begin again because any other plan is lost. The dull footwork of repetition. The plodding march of every single day. The heat will not relent, the day already sacrificed to the flies and the dust. A breeze slips by, stirring leaves and shadows. The sky seems blue enough, despite the burning world.
It is a young man's game, all this dirt and dreaming. It is a young man's part, sleeping to the sweep of the fan. The gray days came along quickly, the change all you can see once you bother looking. Another summer, bones clotted with gravel and engine grease. Another season, blood slowed to a seeping song. The crowds, they creep and sprawl. The crowds, they plot and heave. Play along or pass your turn. The day will not be moved.
Truth is, you might lose the day. Fact is, there is no big win in sight. All the ache and all the longing only roads to wander and winds to ride. All the pleasure and all the plunder just pictures glanced at from the window of a passing train. You might repent your sins, you might defy your judgement, you might take a bullet for your ghosts or take one for the team. Crawl along beneath the beatings of the sun. Call out your complaints of devotion and of duty. The bells keep tolling, nothing to do with you. Mind your business and scuff your shoes. Your number is coming up, counted out or not. Your number is coming up, however broke works out between you and the day.