Cautious silhouette of a girl, scarlet curls dripping down her face like blood

Too full of knives and lonely. Don’t ever let me find you on a hospital bed like that again,

Colorless whisper-thin arms splayed out like the wings of an anemic angel

Happiness is a choice,

Not a circumstance, my dear.

 

Psychedelic and naive, philosophic quagmire marching backwards down abbey road

Blind rebellion; he'll skydive without a chute. Music’s god and all he loves a dream,

So why bother with anything, indeed?

Look, idiot. You are not alone in the universe,

And you are loved. (But not by me.)

 

“Die at the right time”

How do you know? What makes the time right?
Full moon on the eighteenth day of October, 1993,

When corn leaves are the size of an infant squirrel’s ear; or northwest traffic lights align?

Death doesn’t send a red-lettered Final Notice, alongside your tax return.

I’d rather die for the right reasons,

At the wrong time, than vice versa.

Don’t look for death; let death find you,

As it matters not when or how you die,

But why.