To Shub, my friend.

At times like this,
when streaming's bored the shit out of me,
when skype only pings people yapping,
when books are boring, and sleep elusive,
would I rather be lonely or stitched to another ?

They're both doorways to death, my friend
doorways to misery - one cold, one fiery,
they're both thieves, of your sanity,
and unsuspectingly brutal cuts under your skin,
rubbed with salt and frozen,
numb, intoxicated, bitter, dark.

They make us drunk without drinking,
act without thinking,
sunk without sinking,
hope without hoping,
headbang without rocking,
live life without stopping.

And we, hopeful, hopeless, fresh-faced, clueless fools,
swing for want from one to another,
imagining our happiness in dreams far from real.

Life is a sewage of mazes, my friend,
there's no happiness. only illusion.

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