I'm a drunk, and these thoughts don't make much sense.

I don't care about much, less so you. I ignore reality while striving to find a comfortable place amongst it. We sit, too close for nothing, too far for comfort, a breath away from bliss. West-bound is the only way we can be as we sit and stare at the Atlantic.

You talk about the future, I talk about the end. Nothing ever does and nothing ever will, it's all a matter of perspective. A wildfire or a sweeping plague, either way would be fine with me. Bangs and whimpers aside, the result is the same, the silence that follows lasting. Too heavy for a good time, too light to be miserable, there's no middle ground.

Neutrality. It's a constant. Too much and too little, never enough but just a bit too much. Indecision, insecurity, inability and innate sense, all a cog in a machine, every part with it purpose, every piece with meaning. I envy the whole design.

Everyone aims to be the wrench in the system, ghost in the machine, to be unique is to be free, to not conform is rebellion. There is no rebellion. There's no conformity, and non-conformity. There is humanity. To subscribe is to submit, to bow and kneel. To ignore is to the path of insanity.

You laugh and you smile, tell me all your secrets. Shine some light on a dark past, who are you? To understand is to take on burden, Atlas we are not. Our shoulders have never carried more then ourselves. I've never told the truth, but I've never lied, it's an exercise in the creative. Tabula rasa, shaped as willed, anyone can be anything, and I am everything. For you, I stow myself. For this, I hate myself. But who am I?

I am no Alpha, no Omega. I am self-centered, watch how the sun revolves. My words have no meaning, my actions less, cracks forming along the inside of my head. Tabula rasa.