On the nights that I lay, with my heart aching in my throat
I scrape against the walls, bump into strangers, just to feel less alone.
When I'm awake i enjoy the solitude, but my dreams vibrate differently
and I keep chasing the sunny days with a shady coma.
But it never rains, nothing to clean the slate
so it all stays, like a pig finding a way to organize it's filth.
Each day the same the numbers, same colours and different strangers
A couple of them even appear to be friendly.
I'd organize my associates like plastic army men scattered around the room.
A couple of my favorite ones, played with the most and left somewhere visible when i grow older.
The unfortunate ones locked away or tossed in the trash with paper, old food and receipts.
This is life fortunatel, a series of awkward pauses and violent but happy memories.
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