No my dear, it doesn't make sense at all.

I’m sitting here listening to sweet music while wind sweeps around my head, like these thoughts sweep around my heart, my head, my deep

What are they? I don’t know.
I know I don’t trust enough sometimes to trust even myself

- Let alone other people

You are always scared people will lie to you, when you lie to them.


I’m sitting in my thinking chair
which is now my drinking chair,
which has been my crying chair, once when it was cold
it’s a wardrobe chair, most days of the week
and it would be a smoking chair, if
only if,
I had a pipe.

It’s a chair for poor poetry or sloppy prose
a chair for loneliness and happiness
hopelessness and fears
but right now it’s just a drinking chair
an I-won’t-cry-for-nothing chair
a chair to hide in,
to hope in
a wondering chair that doesn’t wander

And then the words escaped him, all of them – just left.
They slammed the door in his face and he was alone facing a wall, a blank wordless wall with not a clue what to do in their absence, after all, what was he without them?

All tubes and heartbeats and surging nameless nothings inside him...

Where do you turn when you don’t know where to begin,

how do you speak when there are no words left inside you?

How do you even breath without a name to call that which you inhale?

What am I, without words?

It’s just a crumbled page full of drunken words, she whispered. Stop reading so much into it.