7:27

Tell me it's a lie. Tell me that when I'm on the road and the skies are still in their orange darkness hour, as I listen to a song about home, that it's all a lie.

Tell me that when I'm thinking of it and the tears slip before I can realize it, that it's just the effect of years and years of make-believe. Tell me I belong here. Tell me nothing of what I think is waiting, is. Tell me to get out the stack of get-out thoughts out of the car next time I get in. Tell the car to stop making this much sense to me. Tell me to hold on without it necessarily being for one meticulously crafted result. Tell me to sit down, and cry. And then keep telling me not to stop, until the flood washes away everything that stands in my view. Because the view at 7:27 does not look bad, at all.

Words are irrelevant, as of this full-stop.

Except for maybe these:
"Hey, good luck exploring the infinite abyss."