Some night I like to lay on the hard cold floor, my skin pressed against it.
I Stare up at the celling. I don't cry, imagine, think, smile.
I just stare.
I see nothing.
Sometimes I wish that nothing was me.
Other times I wish I was that nothing.
So I keep staring till I'm forced to sleep from the days of lack
And then I wake up,
once again where we started,
on the hard, cold, floor
