The Dreamer.

A thousand false starts;

He has a gift for exaggeration.

His fingers tremble and flicker;

And fresh lies appear to entertain you.

His mind is unstable, but he knows that's

Where the fresh hook will appear from;

Writhing from between his filthy thoughts

And decaying memories of what it was to be

Alive.

How can beauty emerge from this leprous mind?

(For he knows beauty; has known beauty,

Having had it at his fingertips for so long.)

He considers for a moment; changing a word to

Fit his purpose, to fit the meaning he knows

In his head.

It won't matter what you think. In his mind

The meaning is absolute, and cannot

Be changed.

He dreams in black and white,

But his nightmares are full-blown

Fly-blown Technicolor.

So he tries not to sleep, and his insomnia

Gives him fresh inspiration; each sleepless

Thought a vivid blueprint.

A thousand false starts;

He has a gift for exaggeration.

His fingers tremble and flicker;

And fresh lies appear to entertain you.

He is more at home in his dreams than

In oppressive reality,

And treasures every second he can

Spend in the place he's made his own.

A flame stands before his eyes.

He's tying in pieces from pieces gone before.

Where he is; everything's a revelation,

But nothing surprises him. All the combinations

Have been seen, and there is nothing new.

He is a fatality, to nothing less than life.

And now he is a creator.

A thousand false starts;

He has a gift for exaggeration.

His fingers tremble and flicker;

And fresh lies appear to entertain you.

Are you entertained?

Are you dismayed?

Melancholia...

He stares at the page; at the screen.

Unseeing, but knowing what is right and

Where error lies. He knows. He knows.

But he'd never be able to explain how.

Because that is life. That is death.

That is who he is.

A thousand false starts;

He has a gift for exaggeration.

His fingers tremble and flicker;

And fresh lies appear to entertain you.