I'll write a book of my mistakes one day, and laugh at all the ones I've made, but today I think I'd rather forget everything. I'm in my room, the door is closed. I'm on my bed in all my clothes. The window's open but the breeze is low. I could throw my pen and paper, and I feel like it would wait there, cuz the air's so dead I might just float away.

Can I get high enough so life's just a constant drop til I'm content with it?

Can I see black so dark that light's a brand new start?

Can I stop asking questions and find the answers?

I doubt it.