instead of thoughts there's this weird music in my head that sounds like nothing but feels like everything, a melody of forgotten words and quiet lullabys. nothing changes but everything moves in a constant turmoil brewing beneath the scattered stars, clouded and dusty from the sunlight never touching. the glass dome holds it in so easily broken, cracked, blown from wind, gentle air on a lonely zephyr or an angry typhoon of blistery gusts. we are born in side the dome, and everyone dies in side the dome, and nobody lives forever, except the lucky. existence is an impossibility outside the opaque window but we live on, working and suffering and hurting, and only the ones inside the fire give up (but some can come back from the grave). it's forsaken, it's ungodly, it's terrible and crude... but it is my life, and it is a very lonely place.
