Can't tell what I had for breakfast, can't be bothered with talk beyond greetings and smoke break scripted takes. I'm going through the motion, half asleep, deep, caught in a reverie, fixated on the notion, the rope, no... They call it maladaptive daydreaming, you know? It's cope. The summer days and winter nights, they blend together, like a dream, in my dream, I converse with another. Hazy eyes, I bet I seem, sad, on the contrary, in my dreams, I am Chad. My mind a scattered mess, my soul perpetually depressed, no energy to flirt, court, or jest... her. ~it's over
