I feel like this fucking valley's packed with alley cats, and scalleywags and rallies at the park with barking dogs whose owners wear their hearts on tote bags,
I expect that, just like Midwestern expats with neck tats and college kids who get fat and attend frats,
and their friends back home are like, "he's chubby. Does he eat instead of study, 'cause he's always tagged at T-Bell with his buddies and did he sell his soul to BuzzFeed, 'cause he must read every single thing they post, I guess it's surf the net or go outside and roast.
Six hours from the coast, and days away from home, I roam this foreign land where man has poured his might into the sand.
I'm Warrin'/Warren like G to regulate a theme and deem some sense of normalcy, to see some type of forest out the trees,
when the poorest man decrees, despite a lack of any mental faculties that this place is a desert.
It's like a communion wafer: bland and dry as fuck.
What's meaningful and interesting about it comes from complacency and the imaginative, yet unrealistic connotations we assign to it,
but despite all that, you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, tucked under the covers of a strange bed, thinking about that bland, flavorless thing... and you get hungry.
Goddamnit,