Drops of waters dripping down the drain, leaky faucet keeps ringing in my brain. Moldy walls, and moldy halls, a mirror of the mold festering in my soul.
Laying down on this old, musty couch, staring at a screen reflecting my expression. I sip from this can, and sit and wonder, when this low life lost its luster.
Like a rusty old bicycle missing a wheel, I just keep riding in circles with no direction, a plague of apathy uncured by introspection. The hardest thing is just giving a ****.
The telephone rings and rings and rings, but I keep on thinking and thinking and thinking, and drinking and drinking and drinking. I sit, I think, I wonder, and I drink.