Out of Place

I go in and look around and it's these groups of kids, siting and talking and being young. And I'm not old but out of place and I feel eyes on me though no one's looking. I sit next to some asshole eating biscuits, another stifling laughter from his book. There is a reason they call it a cattle call and it extends beyond sheer numbers.

Looking at my numbers, my sides, I remember less and less what brought me there. Fear? Fame? Fortune? I hear runs in the hallway, people moving their fingers to an invisible beat, belting beyond the door. Everyone who goes in gets asked for something else. Will I break the chain?

I go outside and there's a pack, smoking. I have nothing to do, I'll be damned if I'm leaving. One of them asks if I want one, and damned if I don't take one off the son of a bitch and smoke it good and deep. These nerves are mine.