I have tried your life, with its mortgage, car, weeds and pastel-screened walls. I have paid my way in money and toil, not entitled to the perks of your tender romances.
Within your world of manipulation and lies, and minds unaware of their sad mediocrity.
Your simplistic hiding places of repression and self-deceit make me jealous of your ignorance, yet happy that I do not walk as the living dead – as you do.
Nice may have a price, and that I have paid in full, but I sleep tightly and warmly at night knowing that I am able to experience the dismal corridors and blinding flashes of understanding.
This I have learned and, perhaps now, my time has come.