Hey man I love you but that ain’t traumatic. It’s a company car, it’s the season. I’ve got friends being dragged into cubicles for all the wrong reasons, it’s the season. It’s the fit. It’s some can’t-be-bothered-to-pick-up-their-pronouns shit. It’s some beat down B-town bar manager powertrip energy. It’s the scale of the company. Can’t all afford to live carefully. Everything shrinking, all of the time. Compromise, “it’s fine”. Hey love I’d man this but I’ve got some business. It’s just a short cover shift, it’s a favour. Got some under the counter off-camera finesse, fuck, it’s free labour. For the guilt. For the waking up crying at 3am sweating the quilt. Gets them so drunk they can barely stand up and he drives them back home. It’s the scale of the industry. Can’t all afford to show sympathy. Everything shrinking, all of the time. Most likely to do it, least likely to get caught. Most likely his friends knew already but nothing gets done and we all carry on, the tide gets closer every time, it’s fine. So I sat on their bed as they shook and I felt pathetic. This only happens cos we let it. Fate, split the deck. Draw the moon and death. Slowly implode as the coastline erodes and the storms take yr home. It’s the scale of the industry. Can’t all afford to show sympathy. Everything shrinking, all of the time. Most likely to do it, least likely to get caught. Most likely his friends knew already but nothing gets done and we all carry on, the tide gets closer every time, it’s fine. All that’s left is a sea to scream at. All that’s left is sea.