It's finally about him.

Don't even for one second in your ambiguous mind think that's it's okay to tell him
anything genuine, cause he’ll downplay your kind words into insignificant little shreds of nothingness and continue to rip away pieces of his mind and throw it into the trash right next to where his passion went.

The quiet philosopher wrapped in a mystery in a losin The quiet philosopher wrapped in a mystery. An illusion of confusion; he’ll never figure it out. Depression is his luxury and he executes it subtly. Some folks don't even have a clue where he’s coming from, and he doesn't know where he’s coming from, but he’s running still. Doesn't know what
a triumphant feels like because his own judgements kills the little bit of confidence he has. His subconscious inadequacies
continues to suffice, so he'll soon perish.

He doesn't think he’s ready for those new beginnings yet, because he never was the type to handle pressure so, he lets the wind carry him back to his shell. His thoughts take over and then starts to daydream about a perfect world, his future, and about girls that he’s never even met yet.

What exactly is his purpose? He wouldn't mind going out of his way to be social, but he has no desire to fit in. This is only half of it. A few years’ll past and none of this will not even matter.

        So who cares?

                               We're all dead anyway.