I spent this morning trying to wash the concert out of my hair and off my skin. The heat radiating from the other bodies in the small venue, the sound left in my ears, the ticket stub in my pocket, the smell of sweat and warmth woven into my shirt.
It seems it was only yesterday we tried to take off the dreams we built for ourselves. All those little plans of roadtrips and adventures and pranks and conspiracies and journeys. They’re gone. Just gone. They clung to our younger selves like our clothing and then suddenly we just left them behind like a sweatshirt in a laundry pile.
Where did they go? We seemed to have misplaced them.
