Copies of papers mechanically printed. Black and white reveal the words, only unavailing to the blind eye of the stupid, they say. For when will the ink leave the equal impression of the words I have spoken? All emotions overflowing in an open room. The audience simply yourself as thoughts scream a tale of love and terror. But reality lies inside white walls. Nothing but the ink to pile in a stack of lies. My fantasy never actuality. Only voice heard is the printer presenting my own destiny. Every word is what I'm supposed to be. Following the lines never slipping between the spaces. Never fall, never escape to the unknown underneath. When will I have the choice to fly? Soar forever until it becomes a matter of course. True and confident in what I have to disclose to the world. It all starts when you rip the papers and walk out of the white room.
