Youth lived the sweet life on the south side of the parking lot. But, the Devil's car was up for grabs, and it was either a BMW or a Bentley, but -- according to the stock market -- he didn't have that kind of money anymore. It was without an allotment that the wonder years had faded quickly enough to cause a musical era, but no artistic movement. Rebellion was left over for the teens in France, and matriarchy was being absorbed by the British walls with enough fervor to make a whole new revival of the Renaissance. Options being limited, the round about way that the trail leads to home base seems to be a good enough decision for the masses; however, with your coffee stained eyelids, you see a little opening on that same south side of the parking lot, and you've stolen the key to the car in the center, all red and glistening, with real, genuine leather seats. Nothing in there was tested on animals, unless you consider your neighbors animals too. You've got a plan to get out on the first train to the tiny town where it's too cold nine months of the year to remember you've left someone behind. It smells like marijuana by the oak tree that they've stationed themselves inside of, and there is a wafting breeze that tints the air with the realization that being "cool kids" only lasts as long as it's "cool" to be a waste of space.
People are starting to value the volume of the atmosphere.
They're left smoking their weed and wondering where I went.
We all left as they admired the veins in the leaves and the gum on the underside of their shoes.
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