There isn't anywhere left to go. It's my own fault, I know I cut it all off. So what? What happens now, well that. I'm trying to hold onto something I think I imagined in the first place. You don't know do you? Maybe one or two, but we'd never know, words never get that far between us. 'Cause I was looking at all these pictures, and I look happy; shouldbe/should'vebeen. That. Happy in expectation, unremarkable. Always unremarkable, always hoping to be more.
And there isn't anything there anymore. Wish there was rainwater collecting in my collarbones, wishing even to be screwed over to make me feel like I weren't dead already, and I couldn't handle anything real.
'Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.
[Crossing the Water]
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag, 'Every woman's a whore.
I can't communicate.'
Because my stomach doesn't sink anymore, or my head go dizzy, or eyes light up, because I've worn you all out and used you all up, and I can't ask for anymore. I tried to be this calm and rational thing, that, I couldn't do it. I don't know if there's any ever any stop to (this).

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: