Once there, I lock the door behind me and find Nic drunkenly babbling on the couch to himself. Shaking my head, I drape a blanket over him and head to my old room. I lie down and stare at the ceiling, not tired.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
What is a poet? An unhappy person who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music. — Søren Kierkegaard, Philosopher & Theologian
