Maybe I'm an outsider. A misfit. Or maybe it's a strange dream. And maybe nothing is of any importance. You see there's either a Kurt Cobain way or there's a Virginia Woolf way, anything else is just a poster of Albert Camus with a cigarette.
There's differences and then are opinions. And there's you, a memory, more plastic than ever. More unreasonable and then I hardly know you, I hardly know myself. But wasn't this what he whispered was the fun bit?
There's a bit of everything. It's all really confused. There's absurdity. There can't be reason. We were all there (and we were laughing) when she was taken on a horseback facing us. Maybe all the pity on her face contorted into some beauty. But when the fire was burnt, when the witches were tied, the river was not up in flames she did let her complexion reflect it.
What trash. Utter crap. It never makes sense. But I should stop.