Outside of a bar, under the dead hum of a drippy air conditioner, I have found a truth. It is a quiet truth. Still, it is louder than a roaring lie. Said truth brutes at a picnic table next to birthday balloons left over from the night prior. The balloons are shriveled and sad, drifting this way and that, but they refuse to touch the ground. Despite the party being over, they maintain their tragic resistance against gravity.
damn that last paragraph hits hard
Eek thank you!