I peel the skin off my face like exposed to sydney's delay. My travels can destroy you, but unfortunately I have no idea where I've been. In the prison of my mind, a bunch of devices, spoons and speakable horrors to my friends. Bloodstains on my hands did not be washed away. I'm not losing it at last, you have to find myself inside or out of the furnace. I'm on the ground, all running to war in the first direction. There's no reason I have to take a few risks of your poisonous clothes and quartz from your veins. There's nothing left here to work for you, you can't handle that situation. I'm posing you inside or out. And your mere madness matters, and all that is left is a boring fucking mess.