People are Strange
There are times I feel at home, and there are times I wake up thinking I'm in your bed, eclipsed by red and not alone but I am. Always. Alone except for the voices in the night. Calling out, but what do they say? It's nothing, go back to sleep.
There's nothing like some good isolationist music piped right into your ears, blocking out the sounds of the outside world as you walk through crowds of people. Talking, laughing, going someplace. Where am I going though? Hell if I know so I just walk. And let the music play. People open their mouths to speak and I hear the soft plink of piano keys. They laugh and I hear horns. They whisper to their friends and in my ears I hear the faint whisper of feminine vocals. I climb the stairs and the music rises into a glorious crescendo.
But it all breaks when I remove the headphones. My world, like glass, shatters.
Some people know how to deal with the real world. They make it look easy. Some people aren't afraid of everything that's out there, unsure of all the new things, because almost everything is new.
You might step around that pile of broken glass. Avoid its sharp, cutting edges. You may walk right through. Blood dripping from your toes.
But I stay where I've fallen. Tiny pieces of me stuck to what had trodden.
There's nothing like some good isolationist music piped right into your ears, blocking out the sounds of the outside world as you walk through crowds of people. Talking, laughing, going someplace. Where am I going though? Hell if I know so I just walk. And let the music play. People open their mouths to speak and I hear the soft plink of piano keys. They laugh and I hear horns. They whisper to their friends and in my ears I hear the faint whisper of feminine vocals. I climb the stairs and the music rises into a glorious crescendo.
But it all breaks when I remove the headphones. My world, like glass, shatters.
Some people know how to deal with the real world. They make it look easy. Some people aren't afraid of everything that's out there, unsure of all the new things, because almost everything is new.
You might step around that pile of broken glass. Avoid its sharp, cutting edges. You may walk right through. Blood dripping from your toes.
But I stay where I've fallen. Tiny pieces of me stuck to what had trodden.