In your little crushing demanded vascular little world of yours
                (your distorted contorted reversed but somehow-real-big-small-wet, reality: I don't know where you are)
  
  But you know where you're going,
                       Mister,
                   Don't you?

That's right, guy. Take your leave (there's no vacations on this trip/silly, you)
      Where do you think you'll head off to when you die?
(If I knew) I'd split in a minute-long-gevity-of-a-seconds' wishful
             Thinking,

              And never turn a shoulder
'*** it's not worth the waste of energy