You might had better catch me outside then.
Good luck finding me the places I hide in.
Where I kept hidden and high.
Committing the cardinal sin of keeping alive on my own supply.
When I could have looked outward. Outbound. Outside.
Trade a bent roof for a bowing sky.
A soft couch for a sore backside.
And contentment,
traded for nonetheless than happiness.
The best deal I ever regretted making.

A real adventure.

To replace the one I’ve been faking.