THINGS ARE
WAY TOO LATE
I can't go anywhere Sunday, and
you are making my skin crawl like
looseleaf butter. I've read about
Demian, and he seems better by
far. I am not engaged by your
warmth or happy ways : figments
of imagination all. Something
makes me sad. But it's you not me
that nettles. I dislike now your silly
ways, all those fake-ass trips to
Europe and back, jaunts that have
changed you not a wit. How can
that be? Sometimes circumstances
change, and you must change along
with them. Things are way too late,
and I've grown tired of this talk.
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