Through tear and wear,
I feel quite weary, actually.

Seeing age pass by…

Well it’s kind of like a song.

You could know what chord is SUPPOSED to come next.

I-V-I.

But instead, the tune you knew

is suddenly atonal.

Forget about structure. All that is left in your mind are intervals, odd ones.

And some sort of discompany that first makes you forget the day,
but then forget your wife and then you’re crying for your mother,
as if you just started out… what was the chorus?

I found it to be so catchy, but now…

oh what is it?

And seeing things and people that aren’t really there… what if my sanity came to a halt a long time ago and everything I see and touch,
are in fact just barely tangible fragments of my molting brain?

Being dead means the music stops,
so can this cacophony keep me happy until my final cadence?