When I'm not too busy pretending I don't hear, or that I can't see, I like to suppose that this is all a game; that maybe, the only thing that's keeping me from falling, is this noose that keeps me suspended above; perpetually hovering. Such childish play things, I could very well imagine myself to attain the lifelike juxtapose of the witless doll. With lips painted crimson and cheeks dusted rose, I would be granted the gift of sanity under silence. A tantalizing mix of poisons, often not blended very well. I can't say I'm much of a being to begin with. Yes I exist, but by the frail threads that bind me to lace. With glazed over eyes, I take in what I can, and fail to filter the toxins. The residue, it sticks. Layered upon the blank canvas on the back wall of the mind, with even cloudier thoughts. Caked in the cracked drying; dying of a once such brightly pigmented pastel I revel in the ashen colours of this sedentary establishment I have cocooned myself into, gasping for the aged air upon the window sill. Ah, as pretty as a doll they would say. But what the audience fails to remember my friends; Porcelain, made of only a fragile clay, is first to crack.
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