They walked this road before we did, boots and bare feet in the rain. Calloused hands and tired shoulders, but their faces still had names. Now we pass the same old fields, heads bent down to glowing glass. Neon drowns the evening sky, and we call this “moving fast”. Where did we leave the path? When did the road go strange? Somewhere between duty and payday we started walking as if we weren't here at all. Our fathers carved their days in stone, bread and dust and metal noise. We trade hours for quiet panic, call it “freedom”, call it “choice”. There’s a weight in every shoulder, same as theirs, just dressed in screens. We are older than this circus – we are bones behind machines. Where did we leave the path? When did the road go cold? Somewhere between "I'm fine" and silence. We lost the nerve to call this heavy and old.
