She's making sense now.

[createlisten]

So you didn't get famous,
and the world is ending,
but it's no big deal,
I mean you were there for it all,
all that stuff you did that felt so amazing and what you laughed at when no was around and what was so beautiful you had to stop and take deep breaths just to stay standing,
you knew yourself better than any outsider ever could have anyway.
And what's the point in being famous?
So you can pretend that you're a thing
that exists suspended like a hologram
in the minds of endless, countless masses?
So you can endlessly negotiate your identity back and forth with an inbred teeming mass?
I don't see that as some desirable goal,
but I might be jealous
and denying the reality
that
we are built to destroy.
Sort of simple-like:
monsters.