What makes us write the things we write? Or do those things we do?
What makes us good or bad? Does your *** make you pink or blue?
What makes us scared? What makes us strong?
Why do we question life in our last lonely hour?

But we do these things, we say things, we regret and forsake mistakes.


But do we love, care, believe, embrace people we do not know?
Or do we close our eyes and pretend to be making angels out of snow?