I stare at the wall. I’d done it again. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. Let my daydreams take control but I’d done it again like a fool I’d let myself daydream, let myself get completely out of control. They worked like a drug, I told myself they were harmless, that one would just make me happy, ease my mind. But I was lying to myself, again. After one I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t look people in the eye. People say that imagination is good but they're wrong, cause when at the end of the day your sitting staring at the white wash wall again, feeling let down that he hadn’t done exactly what he should of done according to my daydream then you realise that there not healthy. They just hurt.