You hide in bramble bushes and half-wit cynicism. You look at life through your own prism, but it's black and white and reeks of backhand terrorism. You start arguments you're afraid to fight. Which is weird, because you're always right. Right?
I am a vessel made of gloop and blood and bones. My brain is like a train crashing...one thousand saxophones. I am surrounded, so why do I feel so alone?
Her excuses wear on you like a Salvation Army suit. The smell of desperation and a cum stain to boot. You'll be fine. Just tap your feet and splint your spine.
Our whole collective dysfunction tastes of tart, lemon madness. You brace yourself and close your eyes against the sadness. Ignore the connectivity. Suspend all activity. Nothing ever ends up the way you want it to be.
Who am I and who is you and her and all the goddamn people? It doesn't matter. A change of perspective is in order, don't you think? Or maybe I should say: You think a change of perspective is in order. We do, too.