In the greatest strings of logic, and the most concise and thought out stretches of time, where do I stand?
Four, five, six, three,
When I die, are bones all that are left of me?
Five, six, three, four,
Am I dissolving flesh at the core?
I’m like twelve, what do I know about what it feels to be alive?
If all my questions were answered, would I not just question the source?
Does the human life have a predestined course?
Three, four, five, six,
Whose problems am I trying to fix?