Do the clouds choose to mock me out of pride or pity? That they may fly and I'm here on this poisoned ground. But I know, I know they're soon to drench the poison I rest on. Drench me in my sin, let it soak away. My life is disgusting, my existence treacherous. My soul is blind to logic while it embraces more and more pain. Neither the clouds nor I remember when this poison got into the earth. Could it have been the clouds themselves? Lying to me all of this time that they were happy and free, while they died and dissipated everyday in an effort to release the poison? No, it couldn't be. They couldn't hurt as I do, break apart as I do, cry as I do... could they? Could these clouds, these floating ever changing clouds, be the same as me?

Is it really not better to fly? Please don't answer that. I want to believe that flying will be better than this. I need to believe flying will free me.