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Through the windows of your offices, junipers lay soft with lazy snow. And in your apartment, paintbrushes grew hardened in their disuse long ago; the colours rusted closed. Make art. Focus and create art. You work just to display art that's completely beneath you. Stationed amidst your obligations, I'm dying for the day when you admit you need it, too. Some instruments flawed in small ways: broken strings or cracks from constant moves. They get buried in your storage space. Though easily repaired, that's your excuse that they never get used. Chorus. Absolutes that charmed you in your youth appeared harmful as you grew. And though they've been abused, these fundamental truths still require things from you.