Love is suicide.
In the club. You could always find me in the smoking section scowling at the pretty girls. I wanted to be one of them.
When everyone was walking home with someone, I was out by ocean, screaming into the waves. Over was never over for me. Lana would whisper in one ear and Bowie would screech in the other. Gerrard was always there somewhere. My teenage heart never stopped beating.
It’s always been a dream of mine to fake my own death. And when my Chen released that final song, it seemed like I hit a wall. Everything I worked for had finally come to an end and it was only a matter of time.
Time is ticking away. Lemmy passed. Bowie finally went to where they needed him most. Gerrard turned into himself I guess. That awkward fourteen year old, he never finished writing those books, the first drafts, I wonder if she ever kept them?
Regardless it’s all over now. Life is different now. Even if I didn’t want to. I did fake my own death. I’m not living like Jim Morrison. The elevator doesn’t go up to ten, there isn’t one in this building.
Where do we go from here, it isn’t lipstick guts and gore, it’s just life.
It do what it does.
We keep on keeping on.