I don't wanna grow up.

Downtown is dying, we are devoid of creative illustration or imaginative design and our possessions no longer amount satisfaction; they rarely reside beside us or show us any positive signs of pining for our company.
Envy stagnates centre stage, and our perspectives are skewed because our lives never seem to strike on the pages so we simply flick through these streets once more, until we dog ear another local bar, a beat up venue, an abandoned park or parking lot. We wish to create no new memories or opportunities, please. Let us instead worry about what has slipped from our grasp, however irrelevant, like so much trash; the past is a grotesque animal.

This city could only be described as a hub for inactivity, anxiety is becoming increasingly fluent throughout blood lines and associates or for as far as we can see beyond the ocean glare; but do we dare to jump?
Dreams of destruction, imaginations will run wild at the thought of exile, we reenact many traditional aspects of banishment with vim and vigor -- we've been flirting with the foul act in full swing throughout our years --- yet we are unwilling to shake the relationships we supposedly despair.

We are not willing to see the future although we do claim that we would perhaps like to be free of this monotonous life; the kicking and screaming vices we drag through the day to day and every damn night.

Only drunk over drinks do we truly realise that our once treasured accumulations are now our kicking and screaming vices...and we laugh together with the knowledge that our kicking and screaming has became our vice. We'll let ourselves forget this by morning: on waking up in a strangers bed...