I turn off the phone, throw the television set against the wall, a knife of the electronic debris cuts into me, as my cheek begins to bleed, I scour the shelves for the whiskey I need-- I cleanse my wound, and douse your former future groom, I hit play, find a hit melody to take me marching through the parade-- my hands feel perfectly pyro as the match sweetly scathes, in the morning I will wake to find peace-- for now, I'll close my lids and dance in my own flames.