I Want It. I Want it.

Ode to the under specified, unambiguous longing that makes our youthful selves into longing forlorn selves, into selves that despair, into selves that are broken, into selves that are cynical.  The romantic aesthetic of whatever it is true + the quick consumerism of fielding low level desires in record time = utter confusion without pinpointed complaints.  We are satisfied, we have everything we need, but we want something more!  Whatever it is, fuck it, we can go to the bar now and get a tasty IPA microbrew made, hey, right here in new york city, would ya figure?, and it IS just like it was, in my head, back in the 1890s, heavy-chord strike, industrial, factory-driven, cold-footed, self-localized romanticism, and it is like I want it to be now, isolated in my own head, walking streets via aqueducts, boutiques, and if we could just get to the corner and meet there, heaven might be had, except that we've been to that corner, been there and back again, and we're happy enough to pronounce the conclusions you'll have too, if you venture that way for too long.  Best to just pull up a stool and know that it isn't really worth it man, and the only way to know something for sure is to know that there is nothing, and when you do that, well, you get something pure, and if we can have something pure right here, then why go running out there into the multi-tiered color saturated world with uncontrolled variables and misaligned misanthropes.  Why not just, hey man, just give me another IPA and lets pass the time away here.  I've got a window.   You've got a credit card.