It's cold in my apartment and somewhere in a distant past the weather is beautiful and I can almost hear you making me laugh. Somewhere out there it's a weird August night and a voice as innocent as the first snow of winter is saying that he is "so happy he could die."
But alternative universes don't really exist and neither do mermaids or unicorns, so I guess everything I love is a joke.
And the reality is that every day something beautiful dies and advertising is all a lie, and people hold hands in rainstorms and and kiss goodnight under a bleeding moon while still feeling completely hollow.
And every night I sit around, filling an empty room with empty words in a desperate attempt to ignore the emptiness that lingers inside of me.... painting my life with the most cliche of all metaphors, and catalyzing another head rush from another cigarette that is slowly diminishing me.
It's kind of like that time two years ago when you were so glad to have a friend who understood everything and you were so damn excited to be surrounded by the promise of new air. But you slept many months longer than your nap was intended and now it's 2012 and the world is scheduled to end anyway, so fuck it.
But upon waking, you realized...
that the air that surrounds is all just pollution and smog.
No one understands or even gives half of a fuck.
Everyone is the star in their own movie, we're all just trying to survive the day.
And the lights in this city are much too bright and they're not beautiful at all,
they just obstruct my view of the stars.
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