i'd like to know that too

what time was it when you reailsed all this had to change? five o'clock? five o five? five o six? it's all details.. what's the use of details i ask you.. the crash happened and you just have to get on with it. five o seven? take your mind out of the way, it's casuing too much static - don't think just be, that's the old maxim isn't it? i am my mind, i can no more turn it off than turn myself off, all those thuoghts that run together sa you look into the mirror cutting your own hair with a carvig knife trying to mould a new you out of the bastard remains of a life that was cruely taken away. the walk to the shop for cigarettes is never pleasent, rain, wind, snow, blinding heat, frozen icicle genitals there's never a break from the pang of a nicotine craving. i don't even smoke anymore, i just buy the packets and offer cigarettes to strangers, a five second friendship that disapears when they realise you have no light nor desire to strike up anymore of a conversation than "sure, have one of these." Sense just goes out of the window. "Marlboro reds, please, twenties. no, no, no, twenties, no, reds, not lights..." it goes on and on. magazines with beauty, beautiful women, beautiful men, cars, houses, microchips, boats, everything all shot beautifully, all framed beautifully, its' no wonder we all have complexes, from the looks of these even inanimate objects must get them. it all turns out to be junk in the end. reality and tv blend together to make short work of relationships, intermingled with adverts for expensive cars and cheap perfume, there's something odd in that. emotion that burns bright and then disapears withuot a second glance, not even an image dancing across closed eyelids. and waking up to find you've just given your last cigarette to someone who isn't even there, to find it smouldering in the pillow next to you where the dream woman lay last night, something isn't right. damnit