The third day I rise alive.
Under unfamiliar lights.
Bed not mine,
Sheets clean white.
Their groaning I still hear.
Singing,
    Under which sky did you love once?
    Loving pretending and pretending loving?
Did they really give me these books.
Pretend caring yet love pretending.
Pretender of love yet not lover of pretense.
Clock is ticking tocking bounding sinking drowning.
A shell of its previous self sit on the table.
    Stained with pretentious love.
Comprehension indeed must birth curiosity.
Knowledge?
Format fades and incoherency invades.
Never made sense anyways.
Yet to love it is not lovingly giving.
To love is not lovingly taking.
What is it then?
Who knows someone else may have an answer—
Singing never was for me.
Pretending to care pretending to be cared.
Loving to pretend to be cared yet not knowing loving to pretend to be cared.
    If one day should your logic collapse, seek help.
Yet the stars should guide me in my way, no?
No.
    They love singing and dancing about loving and pretending.
Loving oneself needn’t mean care.
Loving another needn’t need love.
If pretending is all that mattered in the end then what matter was all the act I put up to those whom I cared and love and sang about?
I despise the third day.
    Cut.