The old man spoke with him:
Remember, in a year from now, it won’t make any difference.
He knew this. Knew he lived what he preached against. Always the same mistakes. Always wanting to do what he wanted. Always doing what’s right. Always wishing he had chose differently. Always doing the same thing, again and again.
The girl the other night was another omen he needed to hear:
I am comfortable making “mistakes”
He now sat on the balcony of a bar overlooking Uptown,
still not wondering how he got where he was.
He knew that secret…
af
(written with pen on paper at Balcony Bar)
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