Let's raft to a merry wonderland and paint all these asteroids blue so they're indistinguishable from the garbled cries that wreck my soul. I'm not trying to be cruel but I left a pile of ash sitting on my doorstep, and apartment complexes and lofty hotel rooms just don't appeal to me right now. My tent is made of parchment-canvas but the winds are like bronzed wood-chips that strike it down every time. I tear the clouds to pieces and stand alone on a dusty path, a parched roll of bedrock that desert sands abandoned a long time ago. I search for elegant words to trail off my lips but just one spark and I'm left looking at a corpse of rhyme. Arching my back, I drive a dagger through imagery's misty embrace, and then when I realize what I've done - I hate myself. Because I just killed myself off and I never even knew. My brain's clogged up and I feel as though my thoughts have swamped half-way up somebody's chimney. It's like they're stubborn little pieces of corrugated cardboard, and it strikes me as enigmatic how they can manage to waver and yet be so strong at the same time.
I can't discern this steady patter of my feet on the sidewalk because all sense of proportion mocks me, jeers at me and punches me in the gut like relentless tidal waves. The lifeless tears of a broken streetlight in the night's moonlit glance do nothing to calm my nerves, because they're as decayed as I am; a bright blue bleached gray by depression. And if anything, standing here only makes me feel sadder. The world's so drained, and I'm the last jagged jigsaw piece, the last dreary panel being pressed into the wall. I'm a burnt-up ruin and my words forgot how to dance to my fancies so long ago, I can't even remember. But I couldn't bring myself to accept the bitter truth until now. I used to think the truth was like oranges - with a spicy, sour tang: simply bursting with life. But now I realize that the truth's nothing more than sour lemons and I'm in no mood to make lemonade.
Some people keep their walls standing firm with plaster, but I foolishly chose to line my walls with words; tying them up in intricate knots and weaving symbolic patterns through them. And I held the world in a mesmerised trance - at least, for a little while. I was proud of my walls and how they stood out so beautifully. But now they touch the floor like hunchbacked castles, and I can feel them collapse around me. The words are withering, corroding in an incessant stream of acid rain and drip-dripping off my ceiling. They leave inky tears of blood wherever they go. I watch them cry, and I'm trying so hard not to cry too. I draw in long hard breaths as I watch the walls crumble before me, and I stare up at the empty beet-root sky as though it will help me convalesce. But for now, I am a vacuum, an atom-less electron.
My walls have finally fallen, and so have I.