Whatever that might be,
Your life stuffed in garbage bags on the street,
Gone by seven-thirty,
The memories that were reality,
E'en those are not the same,
We fool ourselves that time snaps a picture,
So that what there was will always remain,
But then how could there be any regrets?
What's done is what you did,
You could not have been anybody else,
Yet, regret is constant,
Don't you agree?
It, too, is locked in time,
Flip through the moments of your history,
Before the garbage truck empties your mind.
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