Tragedy And The Hobo That Followed

We ran with darling misfits whilst trying to figure out what these tragic beings were looking for. Hobos and boxcars, jumping recklessly into our next adventure without regard to the impossibility of immortality. Clocks ticking, we are tucking, ducking and rolling. Once upon a time we would fall on our faces, bruised and misused we continued to go forth into the ballad of the blinded, inescapable futures.

What explanations could we possibly give that would fill each and every void of each and every angle of those who question us? We are hosted by misconceptions and received without enthusiasm if founded out of character. We wear these tattoos, dangling earrings and painted faces to reveal what is hidden beneath but we are hiding.

Take away our obsessions with mythical beasts and celebrated fables. We curl up in a ball with hands in our faces crying, for shame we cannot save ourselves. Instead we try to save the strays that we pick up from the gutters of these torn down streets. And we think that we are heroes but we are merely puppets of our own design created to shield our outcasted vision of free and willing exploits.