I’m too tired to think
But I don’t sleep a wink
Yet honestly
That’s okay with me

Before you can get good at solving puzzles, you must first master the riddle of yourself.
Otherwise, what's the point of solving mysteries if you yourself are one?

Sometimes it’s nice to know that whenever you wake up at night seemingly alone, there’s a whole other world awake.

I don’t know why I’m crying
All I can feel are the rivers of tears pouring down my face
My teeth chattering from all the shock
That brings my body gasping for air
For I can’t breath
Knowing that I had not received
An invitation to happier dreams

The minds and souls of the characters in my books are often more real than the brains behind the books. Hence, this is the reason I much prefer to read than to interact with the world around me. Some might argue that if I were to interact with my surroundings, I would get more out of it than the ink on the paper of my lovely books. Though I would argue that one must interact with a book to engage in one, and therefore one gets more out of it in the long run. Whereas the world that surrounds me, I can choose what I wish to interact with. Books automatically **** me in down a tunnel of well... you know...

Will I be missed when I am gone
Or will my ghost just linger all alone
Will my smile be forgotten
Will my laughter simply whisper
Between the shadows that hide my soul
Maybe I'll just be a twinkle
In the dark twilight of tomorrow's sorrow

I got so tired discussing my future
My body decided to shut down
Afternoon of silence and nausea
Shaking sweating I can't get up
So I lay on the hard cold floor and
Tell the world to shut the hell up