Sometimes I feel like my life-world is in intangible mass of city lights; none of which belong to me. I look down on the industrial-scape of blinking stillness and I feel like nothing I will ever say will calm it. These words I write every day are not mine, but learned from endless books which I could never write. I have no original thoughts, no original needs. I have only atoms which shaped into something human-like, with a unique appearance; a porcelain factory replica of thoughts, dreams, desires.
The moon leered through the clouds while I gazed upon this foreign place which I will never really love. Loneliness danced at my feet on the cold, heartless stones upon which I stumbled. I am following a life-path that trips me up more than it cradles me. It has made me unlovely, small and mean and I have not said a nice thing to you in weeks. I apologise.
I think I loved once, but it may have been in another life. I held your hand by the raging fire and felt no spiritual awakening, like they had promised, but just an emptiness that no one can explain. I feel like dead leaves are strewn in my wake, many autumns in which I grew colder, fading from your smile. It may have been the grotesque insignia on the side of buildings which remind me of the stupidity of us.
These are not our thoughts, we have no original thoughts; we take these from the minds of others. A city-scape of others; millions of mindless minds, indescribable monster-angels, these fearful souls. All of us know, there is no one who would give their lives so that we can have a chance to live. I only have this life, I only know of this world; but it seems so lonely in this intangible mass of city lights; even while I am holding your hand.