I always thought I'd grow up to be a traveller and man of the world like Don Quixote. Instead, I'm pretty much a basement dweller, swimming in post punk music and obscure indie like Red House Painters in my room, snorting depth like Lindsey Lohan snorted lines of coke. Feeling so much sorrow with only writing as an outlet, but every piece feels that it lacks my own soul. I'm too ashamed to confront the imaginary audience that laughs at me whenever I try to share what isn't mine with others, I never wanted to wear a mask. I think there's always something to do and something to innovate, something to learn and something beyond seeing to see when I have an ounce of passion in my body; I feel I can be aware, though I still can't. I just end up babbling over what can't be explained, pouring down into something idle and ridiculous.