I am absolutely petrified
afraid of little and big alike
living like someone half-alive
not radioactive, but acting spite
If I could exist another way
be born into night, as I was into day
it would be much easier to hide

Why exist at all when not really alive?

Ponder upon the hatred of all
Why exist for something that is nothing at all?
These people, these peasants ask for it
these stupid, whining, petulances
talking to me as if I care
With so-called clever small talk, unnatural air
gasping and panting for one more breath
that they'll get and ask for again

A cycle, a cycle of loving demands
that will end with me, by my hands
Why exist for nothing at all?
It serves to remind
It is alright if you've already died