On The Wall Hangs A Broken Clock
Conversations are too difficult for me. Sporadic sentences are all that I can master in my waking hours - but in sleep I'm you. People document their lives with faces on the wall, where friends are just mementoes of times otherwise forgotten and aI crawl through days thinking thoughts like you. Days so long time appears to be still like the broken clock upon my wall... and my wall is lined with people I would rather be instead of me. Instead of this monstrosity. The monotony is killing me, these friends I have are imaginary. My death would cause hilarity but hilarity is the antithesis of everything I am in life you know.