You live in a different world than I.

Can you hear me?

Do you listen to the strangled screaming inside you?

The cry of anguish, pain and hurt?

You are the paint, stroked carefully across the yellowed canvas. The facade.

I am the blood, tearing across something that has been forsaken. The depressing truth. Forgotten by the world.

But you still live life, day by day, minute by minute...

You can't stand it, can you? Feeling minute and insignificant. Like the splattered bug on the windscreen. Like the broken toy, strewn across the attic floor, abandoned because someone lost interest in you, couldn't be bothered, grew up too fast.

Moved on to something else.

So you look around at where you are now-- burried in this dungeon of smirking, lost dolls in this prison.

They look ugly.



Broken beyond repair.

Crushed beneath the weight of something else.

And you can't stand to stare, to see what has become of them. How ruined they look to you.

Because inside, you know that they are just like you.

Just like you.

When you stare back, it's your blood that runs down as tears on their dust-covered faces. It's your eyes that stare back, glossy and completely void of the free emotion it once used possess, you don't even feel hatred now. It's your heart that has been ripped out, torn apart and lays hanging by mere strings, if not completely gone, encrusted in dried blood and tears.

It's your soul that swirls like a mist in a dead black, empty, tainted, stained with blood and tears that come from your heart and your eyes, screaming in this Hell for all of eternity.

But who hears you?

Do you hear me?


Even though your ears have been pulled from their place on your head because you didn't want to hear the screams, the pitiful moans of despair and pain and hurt, you still hear them.


They come from you.

You are the one emitting those awful, unbearable sounds of hollow.

Do I hear you?



How? How come I am able hear you, when all those other prisoners in their own mind cannot?

Because I am you.

I am your blood, tearing, no, crawling across something that has been forgotten.

I am your soul, dancing across a trail of broken promises, paved with shattered dreams, under a sky of dust, with bloodied feet, but I can't feel the pain.

You don't feel the pain.

You simply don't feel. You don't feel happiness, for youself or anybody else. You don't feel anger, at whoever stuck you here in this Hell hole. You don't feel sympathy, for anyone other than yourself, whether they are more pitiful than you.

Oh, you see. Of course you do. Doesn't everybody?

But even when you see, you don't feel.

Your bloodied, broken heart doesn't go out to them...

It goes back in, to you.

You wallow in self-pity, because you don't want to see what you've become.

What you see all around, to you, they aren't other people. They are mirrors.

They are you.

I am you.

Yeah, you.

I am you.



Now isn't that enlightening?