Tutti

White sneakers against the mud, as if you could trick autumn, wear cleanliness over weariness. The world around is roaring with revolution, but inside it's still quiet because fatigue from all this thunder has become commonplace. I just want to hold someone's hand, not for drama, but so I don't get lost among unfamiliar cities and identical evenings. It's cold on the rooftops, but beautiful, especially when the moon lazily yawns over Rome and something like lightness sloshes in the bottle labeled "Light." It seems like everyone around me lost the same battle, just with different scenery. And yet, there's something almost comforting about this defeat: if everyone fell, then falling isn't shameful.