I don't quite know what I'm doing:
I'm roaming, looking for a niche
To claim as my own.
I'm sick of living on the edge of my own life,
Dodging experience; ready to flee
In the blink of an eye.
And I'm on the brink of a
Because I can't separate
Between fact and fiction
And there's no distinction between days
When they're all the same.
It's all a weight:
A blur of work and sleep
And sometimes being awake enough
To worry about my ever-approaching