It only gets later once it gets late.
The bartender knows that, the waitresses too.
Rushmore doesn’t know that, he never will…
This city hasn’t consumed him yet, not completely,
Maybe someday he will find what he’s looking for,
Maybe someday it will find him.

The things we settle for are the things we think we deserve,
We convince ourselves we deserve what is right in front of us,
It’s because as people of a shared and dying world, efficiency is the only currency we understand.
Luck is a concept we use to simplify fate,
Fate is a concept we ignore to justify piety.
This glass of tea in his hand is righteousness,
And the cigarette in the ashtray is the eternal reward…

He deserves this city, but it doesn’t deserve him,
There was a time when everybody deserved each other,
But now the night has settled in…
The rain on the window is a shield against the prying eyes of desperate headlights,
Desperate for freedom,
Freedom to be slaves,
Slaves to a city,
A city with no name…

Art by the magnificent