“For the perfect idler, for the passionate observer it becomes an immense source of enjoyment to establish his dwelling in the throng, in the ebb and flow, the bustle, the fleeting and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel at home anywhere; to see the world, to be at the very center of the world, and yet to be unseen of the world, such are some of the minor pleasures of those independent, intense and impartial spirits, who do not lend themselves easily to linguistic definitions. The observer is a prince enjoying his incognito wherever he goes.”—- Charles Baudelaire
She seemed dressed in all of me, stretched across my shame. All the torments and the pain, leak through and covered me. I’d do anything to have her to myself, just to have her for myself. Now I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do When she makes me sad.
She is everything to me, the unrequited dream, the song that no one sings, the unattainable. She’s a myth that I have to believe in, all I need to make it real is one more reason.
I don’t know what to do, When she makes me sad.
But I won’t let this build up inside of me, I won’t let this build up inside of me,
A catch in my throat, Choke, Torn into pieces, I won’t, no, I don’t want to be this, But I won’t let this build up inside of me, I won’t let this build up inside of me,