The words. They make no sense. I'm going mad. Very mad.

It's like clocking the best lap ever in your entire life. And your car spins out in the final lap. Logically you should get back to the track and give it your best shot.

But my style isn't so. I quit. I prefer to. But I can't.

I've lost my voice screaming and bruised my knuckles punching the wall.

I'm going mad. Nothing meant so much to me before.


I finally know why people kill themselves.