I've bitten my fingers to the bone. I've gotten too stoned. I don't know why I keep doing this. I can't pull out of this tail spin. I think I'll just crash and burn, oh god, it sounds so nice, I think I'll do it again. This dour mood has got to be my muse, my sick addiction, it's the only reason I am missing every chance to make myself feel complete. Instead, id rather choose to tear myself down at my feet. And as I fall I'll hold out my arms and let them collapse, and wrap myself tight as I burn away into the night, like an effigy, made out of wicker and of spite.