Here I find myself again, low lamplight reflecting a shadow. Waiting.....waiting is all I do now. I wake up in the morning and there's nothing. Nothing but repetition, the demeaning struggle stuck on rerun. I was waiting for work to end, now I'm waiting for the gin to kick in, and soon I'll be waiting to fall asleep so that I can do it all over.

What am I doing here in this room, on this beach in a paradise, hiding out from something that I don't want to be, pretending to be someone I'm not, putting on a smile during the day and acting like everything's gonna be okay?

Justifying so much to myself because I don't want this compulsion, this need to take all of the bad things I've ever seen and use them as fuel to burn this whole world down.

What I've really been hiding from is a part of me that was born in the dark, while wandering down nearly deserted roads in the middle of the night, passing figures huddled in alleys and dying for a fix, meeting strangers on streets I've never been able to find again and wondering what it is that we're searching for.

This part of me that can hide behind eloquent revolutionary rhetoric and believes itself capable of sparking a conflagration of the poor empty masses, truly is only lost, still lost and wandering those nearly empty roads.