The brilliant idea you've been waiting for expired a moment after someone else thought it. Implementing emptiness has become your forte and scavenging for adrenaline within the souls of second hand tennis shoes is representative of stability in your crooked, unbalanced way, when you glean nothing but past tense grammar on any given day of your actual life.
There's no grand story here. Go somewhere else.
And you can't even paint a sympathetic portrait of your dry and chaffed lips, of purple ink stains beneath eyes, of words unattainable stuck around your gums, because the guy over there painting an unequivocal masterpiece is homeless and utilizing dirt to make a rainbow with seven more colors than your store bought acrylics ever could.
Pity is stupid when you've got everything but that