The truth is . . . you think what people want you to think.

You love me. You ignore me. You save my life, then you cook my mother into soap.

To merely observe your culture without contributing to it seems very close to existing as a ghost.

It's only in drugs or death we'll see anything new, and death is just too controlling.

your handwriting. the way you walk. which china pattern you choose. it's all giving you away. everything you do shows your hand. everything is a self portrait. everything is a diary.

How you're still always trapped. How your head is the cave, your eyes the cave mouth. How you live inside your head and only see what you want. How you only watch the shadows and make up your own meaning.

You see, life only turns out good or bad for only a little bit. And then it turns out some other way.