Few worse feelings
Than this emptiness
And a hollow envy
Of the dead
Or dying

To have no prospect
Of anything real
In the immediate future
Is like having stitches
Across my eyes

A vulgar curiosity
As to why you want me
To come out tonight:
I'll only chain smoke
And bore you to death

Your lover is waiting,
And I'm waiting for mine
But I don't think she'll show up
For a year or two
Like anything
It comes and goes
And leaves you feeling ruined:
I cannot paint
Or communicate emotion
Through any artistic medium
Until I feel
A little less like Dresden