life is simple, once in a while you get a slap, a satori, some joy, a sour moment, a bitter one, while you attempt to digest it all watching a band from Glasgow play that which sounds like stars, and you wait and wonder it he meant it, you know, the eternal stupidity of "there'll be no one else", "but you" I guess, so, what am I? a priceless artifact? or someone else already? there is not enough coffee in the world to wake me up, there ain't, 'cause it all feels O so real, I can hold it in my arms, I can sleep to it, I turn it into silly poems, and the poetry is real, so, how the fuck cannot it be real if them words I have typed once and again are there, carved in those benches in the park I made for you? life in color is simple, yet all you can think of is black and white and black and white and fading shades of grey, and this window is too large, and the sight from it too heavy, you test your patience and say you ain't shit like the rest because you just know, you know, you know better than those who ditched those warm, fragile arms, because they thought themselves so important, and them arms so irrelevant and replaceable, and them idiots now weep and shout "take me back, you ingrate", you smile, you say to yourself there is no hope for them, you think to yourself you hope there shan't be no hope for them since if this weren't so the world would fall, and you with it, fool, lovely fool, fool in love