This Is The Part Where We Die

When we look at the clouds, sometimes, they appear mushy and chewy if we only could.
But if we were to fall off from somewhere above, the clouds wouldn't actually save us. It isn't the fluffy cushion bed we imagined it as.
These are the random things I think of after waking up at one past ten in the afternoon, looking up at the sky on another ordinary day.
Of course, Peter doesn't like it when I say all these out loud. He isn't as vague and crazy as I am, rather worse, with his obsession for Jughead from Riverdale and other of those mysterious stuff. He could be a tremendous poet, much like Alexander Pope but I'll let him figure that out on his own.