Old Strathcona

Couldn't have written it any better, The first time since skipping town That we hung out the old hotel burnt down. While the headlines couldn't capture What that lobby once meant to us; A snapshot of our recklessness now buried in a mountain of sut. Nostalgia is nothing but a trap. I get tangled up in it, I'm well aware of that. Every time, I think that I have moved passed, I ruminate on events until I relapse. I can't help but wonder, Do you ever think of the evenings when I'd show up at your front porch with draft glasses and a crooked grin? You'd kick me out in the morning, steam rising from your coffee cup, saying, "next time you go scheming, won't you consider growing up." I'm still working on it despite getting old, bordering on bitter and cynical. I'm partially in denial that neighbourhoods will change, that favourite venues will close and best friends will move away. It's a juvenile act, nothing short of weak Comparing a place to what it used to be. Turn the dial when you've heard enough. That window won't open, it's painted shut. Nostalgia is nothing but a trap. I get tangled up in it, I'm well aware of that. Turn the dial when you've heard enough. That window won't open, it's painted shut.