well, it's true. i don't like to be hated, and i'll tell you one thing
more: i'm catching skin under these nails, and i'm well acquainted with
the floor. it's high time for a slow ambition. i'm sick of making all
these stupid changes to a part that i play well. it is my wall to raise.
what if i'm the best i'll ever be? what if i'm an asshole forever?
i know it's not a feather in my cap, but that's one less thing that i've
got to carry. my sleeves are soaked and stained from that fat red valve
that i left pinned too long, and now i've locked it away.
yeah, it's true. yes, i need to be needed, but doesn't everybody now?
some say it's a rubber crutch, but i still say it's better than nothing
at all. this life's been one for the wall—the visuals, the visuals.
i've rearranged my room for the thirteenth time, but there's too much
shit to fit in here. it's kind of like my head, but then it's really
just my room. i just can't seem to clear a space in which to stretch
out all my words.
why? why? what if I died today? i'm coming short on long explanations
i laid my cards on the table. my thoughts are twice my size. i've been
unable to find a resting place.
– lazycain, "north atlantic"