I feel so light, I'd be fooled that I was drunk. I am featherweight, clouds and air. Gray and thick and raging of embarrassing admissions. Arranging the white I see and the black so sleek. I'd think I was so fucked up, you couldn't recognize me. I'd be whistled away like the leaves on the other side of this pane where I sure hope I couldn't feel pain. I'm limped on the branches and scattered at the roots.

These eyes, you see, they want to ripple in, roll backwards to the darker side where we're illusioned with the cowards in the dark. And the cowards, they're among us. In fact, you might be one of them. If I don't watch myself, I might be one of them.
I can feel myself slithering stationary. I can feel myself shaking and shuddering. But I never really give in. No, I'm not going back there. Not as I've built these great, silver gates that remain untouchable.
They're my fingertips.

They're my heat.
And with my heat, I feel so light, I'd be fooled that I was drunk. Featherweight with the clouds and air with the blistering cough of my lungs. Up here, it's gray and thick and I close my eyes to see...