Capri Sun

The nite seems to suck the air from your lungs: between the three killers, the smell of hash, and the strange Capri Sun juice box, a child of the world slips in, both funny and terrifying. The mood feels like the glitter and trinkets, the blessing and the curse are all in one line against the backdrop of a shimmering Mercedes; it seems like all the answers are hiding in an empty jar, and anxiety is riding shotgun. The voice throws short judgments at the story: love either heals or cripples; after it, only bruises and the division of roles remain: to serve, to be silent, to run. Money and betrayal go hand in hand, like old acquaintances; the house has grown larger, but the shadows remain the same, and no one will come out of this game unscathed; in the twilight, you can hear memory reflecting on losses and attempts to start over. The morning is met with swollen eyes and bitterness: almost everything is sinking in a sea of shit, but those who remain on board are a true rarity. The irony is that a small sip of Capri Sun can still quell panic attacks, and the ability to lie sometimes proves to be a working tool in a world where truth is a luxury.