You say, “I can’t stay here, this town is chewing through my bones.” You scroll through rented skylines, palms and clean white kitchen floors. You talk about some distant city like a capsule for your nerves. “As soon as I can get there, I’ll remember how to breathe.” I get it when you say you want out, anywhere but here – but you take your weight with you... no matter where you plant your feet. New streets, the same tight chest, just a different view on the same old strain. This isn’t about the streets – you’ve just been holding it in too long. You take your weight with you. You take your weight with you...
