Beneath the street.
In a tunnel.
T'was made for cars.
Beneath the stars.
Of southern France.
The careless whispers.
You are despicable.
I loathe you.
Are you even aware of how truly miserable you make me feel?
Understand this: I hate you. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me continue.
I am sure you'll misconstrue this as just idle vitriol. That's the type of person you are, exaggerating things to suit your agenda. Usually accompanied by some snide, elitist remark, an attempt to push me down the ranks of importance, even lower than the lint that resides inside your bellybutton. Surely you comprehend how childish, immature and silly you behave, and how pathetic that is.
I didn't just imagine all of this overnight. I've put up with this crap for years, and
I'm ready, now I'm set.
Visiting myself, but I haven't got there yet.
I had to pack.
Distinguishing the fiction from the fact.
Adventure, through my mind.
Would've packed more but I didn't have the time.
An ego trip.
Sailing my brain as the captain of the ship.
It's so far.
(Should've kept my brain in a tiny jar.)
It's so long.
(The passage of the truth is shorter than the wrong.)
It's been days, no maybe, weeks.
I'm growing fur and stubble up and down my cheeks.
Am I cured yet? I hope so.
I'm not sure how much longer I can go.
Wasteland: My childhood.
Frozen, nothing grows, whereas once it would.
The only facts that I know.
Are from fossilized records known as old photos.
I'm still ten.
(I wish I could go live my life back over again.)
I'm still small.
(An invalid whose meagre screams don't fill up the walls.)
Now my journey's, at an end.
At least until my next visit 'round the bend.
I don't know, what I've learned.
Is it better to be saved or to be loved a