If I could have another chance,
I wouldn’t change a single thing.
I’d run like hell and never look back,
as the world burns to the ground behind me.
And I would swear to change it all,
but never let them push me to my knees.
I would fight like an animal.
I wouldn’t do anything differently.
I wish that part of me believed,
I’m going to come home someday,
but this is my very own escape,
and is there purpose without meaning?
Was there ever a chance to change anything?
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 