Figures

It's 2:56am. There's no real ideal for me, everything and everyone is very bland. I remember thinking, one day I may change, but I don't think it is possible. My personal euphoric emotion is not enough for me. It's like the hunger for something that is unattainable. It's like an unquenchable thirst, a longing for touch. Sometimes one may seem so enamored by others in society, it's every single product, like pigs waiting for their slob. To me, I find no discernible difference in the things that are made, it's the smallest little things that are interesting. It's watching a small bug, fly around looking for food, or the cracks that have been formed in the sidewalk. Rigged are we, such monsters and abominations of society, grasping at straws that hold small drops of hope. Oh but we must be set right, like a fucking picture on a wall, slightly off. It's not the picture that's wrong, maybe it's our society's eyes. The eyes that see no person, but figures, faceless and droll walking around this empty home, built of sticks and mud.