Through the windows of your officesnjunipers lay soft with lazy snow.nAnd in your apartment, paintbrushesngrew hardened in their disuse long agonthe colours rusted closed.nnMake art. Focus and create art.nYou work just to display artnthat's completely beneath you.nStationed amidst your obligations.nI'm dying for the day when you admit you need it, too.nnSome instruments flawed in small ways,nbroken strings or cracks from constant moves.nThey get buried in your storage space.nThough easily repaired, that's your excusenthat they never get used.nnMake art. Focus and create art.nYou work just to display artnthat's completely beneath you.nStationed amidst your obligations.nI'm dying for the day when you admit you need it.nnAbsolutes that charmed you in your youthnappeared harmful as you grew.nAnd though they've been abused,nthese fundamental truths still require things from you.