I wish I'd fall from orbit and grow in the dirt somewhere.
I can't come to terms with life itself because I have too many questions.
If you wonder why I don't listen to half the things you say it's because I'm too busy counting the molecules of your breath.
As a detached, extraterrestrial floating in a sea of unfinished ideas, I thoroughly enjoy solitude. Colossal tragedy wouldn't give me a perspective anything short of that of a rubber band, pulling me down to the earth for a moment only to plunge me deeper into an anti-social abyss. Blades of jagged titanium churn through my flesh and I can't help gawking at mellifluous shapes of crimson.  
13 billion years ago the universe manifested from explosives and sometimes I can't tell if I'm ADD, sociopathic, a poet or if some of us are made up more of
fire than human.