and wearing it around a finger like it's platinum enough to sink a ship,
and turning away from the glare of foreign fields where there is no cloud at all
to even let some go stray, and where he sun is boastful and bloated in he sky and beaming
about it all day, because on the bright side, sometimes,
things are only looking better for being bronzed,
especially when on your side it's looking a little grey and there's
nothing wrong with grey, anyway, and the grass is probably astroturf,
and the skies all blue ceilings and the smiles are cut out of catalogues that
are cried over by teenage girls. So spending time letting eyes grow into he dark
because it's not really dark, just darker, and shadows only mean there's light,
and in the dark you might catch the sight of star, freckled on your windowpane
at night, or if not, it will certainly be there, winking at you:
I'm not thinking positive, but why would I only think one way?
(Anti-Platitudes Campaign).