You're So Sad in Your Subplot

Walking up Market Street. It is very sunny and warm out, but I am failing at my attempt to enjoy myself. Kevin wails in both my ears.

What is, what is this? This mess of my existence is all these politics of life and death and relevance. It's my existence.

Another morning it comes running up your bedpost with the wind. You face yourself just like you always do, time and time again. The mortal coil of image, inner peace and satisfaction.

And so you keep it on the down-low, hiding all the secrets that are down below. And so you keep it on the down-low.

Tell me, baby, was it worth it all?

Without a hint of nausea, I have a sudden, strong urge to throw up.

I am so very tired of this shit.