I seem to succumb to the sound of solipsism; it's been sinking in slowly and securely.

I pick pleasures that pay off when played off; I'm prone to plan games precisely and purely.

I slay some with what I say and sing songs I shouldn't sing; one should see my sincerity, surely.

I pack plenty of pride in a persona made of paper; I'm a plane without a pilot that took off prematurely.