To whom do I write for?
is it for the girl whose father drinks a bit much for a monday?
the woman who never has left her house?
the man who forgets all too often, that he too was once a boy?
Or, perhaps, I am in reality, a selfish prick and I write for me.
Maybe, I must clear this infinite insanity that swirls my cluttered mind
Or maybe, just maybe, I write for those whose souls have no rest in this life.
