You can.

You can read the news if you want, but you probably don’t. You can make fun of the glossy magazines. You can write extraordinary poetry. You can live in India. You can be happy. You can act like you’re six. You can play dead.

You can be quiet, too quiet. You can know you’re the best. You can be a snob. You can move up, be a mover and a shaker. You can sit in your room listening to music making playlists to your life: beginnings, endings, in-betweens. Songs will probably repeat themselves.

You can travel of course, but it’s probably just a stage. You can spend your whole life trying to find yourself. You can focus on marrying an attractive woman or living gracefully. You can go broke. And forget. And complain.

You can rhyme because there is a rhyme and a reason. You can change your mind it’s up to you. People can tell you things, people will. You can talk to them on the phone, the internet, they’re always around. You can realize what things means. You can regret.

You’re hindsight should improve but your vision probably won’t. You can test your patience. Really test it. You can have a one-track mind. Just for the hell of it, you can say that. You can think it doesn’t matter. You can realize something’s really great. Or you cannot.

You can.