Let me tell you something about myself.

You may not guess it right off, but let me tell you, that I am as capable as anyone, and even more capable when it comes to surprising you. So never turn your care off for too long at a time, or you might be blind sided with a realization not in your favor.

It's proof that you're not the only person alive, when I say something you weren't expecting, and something that you'd rather not hear.

Watch your back, or I'll fall in love with you all over again.

How about yourself, now?

What ails you?

No; don't tell me. You can, but I won't care.

You use your pillow to cry on and your allies to make you feel good. If you depend on your friends to watch you bawl and sulk, you'll be sadly mistaken about the state of things when they prefer time without you, and your time is spent mostly alone.

Thought is the sickness that plagues you. You're a formulating and callous bitch, aren't you? Conspiracy theorist? I can't recall a time when you weren't looking for an excuse or a propaganda to ride.

You think too hard, and you think with your. . . which is good to keep up, but really, aren't you missing something when you divert your focus to that alone? Yeah, I could fuck you if you wanted me too. Over and over again until you bled, if that's what you wanted.

In exactly the way that anyone else could, and eventually, you'd tire of me, too.

Is there anything that truly makes you happy without having to worry about your ass, or the way you present yourself? Other than picking a pointless fight? Can you bring yourself to that point, to realize that you're making a fool out of yourself? Hey, and I even cared about you once, too.

Maybe the feeling's still there, perhaps, you think?

But people like me have one leg hanging from the train, so they can be at the station on time to catch the next one.

The lesson is, if you'll believe it, that good things come, but they never go. Your sadness is a momentary distraction from the best of life and the best of times, and even the morbid thought brought on by war only lasts as long as that. If you make it out alive.

And truth be told, even years from now, you'll cross my mind.

So I'll get back on a train and pass the place we used to live, wondering if you're still around. Whether you'd actually be there or not, I will, eventually.

I ain't got anything better to do.

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