I always have such need to merely talk to you. Even when I have nothing to talk about – with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you. Because I never seem to run out of tenderness for you and because I need to feel you.
I don't blame the world for my problems
I ruined my life myself
It's not like I did it intentionally but I did it nonetheless
And I don't think I can never fix it nk matter what I do because I think I like to give in to destruction
What a pathetic way of life