It was mine. MINE. Mine Like a toy belongs to a little girl Who's always had to share. Mine Like a private journal I accidentally left in the open. Mine Like the boy who has my heart And doesn't know what to do with it.
I am trying to get my mind off The usual morbid thoughts. The ones about How everything is temporary And how I won't remember any of these people In ten years And how nothing matters. How the world doesn't care whether any of us exist And if humanity slipped out of existence Mother Earth would probably rejoice. About how we are nothing more Than placeholders in the cosmos And our existence is unnecessary And unimportant.
Because if I stay on that path I will end up in an Existentialist state of Suspended indifference. And that is not good for sales.