We're all going on a summer holiday. Packed and ready. With anticipation high and notes of scribbled plans in our pockets. To Paris we go. It's of the hour but it's gone. As if evaporated. Gravity has no pull here. Expectations shatter and numbness follows. With nowhere to go you wander Avenue des Champs-Élysées in your mind. It's as it should be. Lines of trees, endless store fronts and good company. Realisation kicks and heartbreak follows. It's too much, it can't be real. A parallel collision. Circumstance imposes a timeline. If we could have gone together, on our terms, wouldn't that've been something? There's no other care and you don't feel. Reservations are shrouded though you still see clearly. Go in for the kill. Your dreams set aflame. Written off. It was never really yours. On the rack, a loss without meaning, without understanding. Misfortunes were meet. It's mustn't have been for you. There's no conclusion, it's all static. You'll have to travel through the confines of your notebook. Damaged goods. What's left of the summer is strung up. In disbelief we watch the cloud set the sun. It's got to be better than this. Waiting for the autumn to fall. Well then, how do ya like them apples? It's a nice sentiment.