Why, hell-oh Mr.Insecurity. You look so attractive today, much better than myself. Your omniscient grip around my larynx is comforting, you know, comforting in the way that a tumor won't abandon you; like a frenemy, a parasite, feeding off of your good ideas and healthy tissues.
I love you Mrs. Unknown Future. Your surprises are so comical, like a whimsical double homicide and I am a mere rubber-necking piece of evidence in your routine.
Dreary little Lonely comes along stealing all the fun we weren't having. Why must one be so selfish with that which does not exist? Not in spirit, nor in form, not even in feeling or sound. Just robbing one of the possibility of a maybe idea. What if I wanted love? Or a moment with the warmth of a grandma's homemade cookie.
You all rob me of the concepts I can not comprehend, because i can not feel. That is only a wish, a lie, because I do feel, too much, but can not figure out how to make you all leave me a sane homosapien.