it's me, without background music, without harmony, without polarizations, without manuscript.

it's me, trapped in a sequence of adverse feelings, praying until i no longer have faith in anything, holding hands with sadness.

it's me, clinging onto their words as if it were the gospel, wanting to run away from myself, trying to embrace the chaos of the world.

it's me, dissipated, afflicted, of irretrievable salvation.

it's me, perishing on the uncertainty that there is a right time for every ending, all subterfuge; collecting mental exhaustion, imbecilic lyricisms and useless battles. it's me, getting drunk on life's incomprehension, fuelling tyrannical ideas about love, falling apart insidiously.

it's me, wearing all of this nudity, vulnerable, exposed.

it's me, hypocritically mortal and challenging immortality, trying to find the stoic peace, always mourning old wounds.

it's me, human in a desperate way.

or human, or machine.

machine of survival, of only eating for mere necessity, of drinking cheap booze and toasting to my own mischance. machine full of mechanical errors, without spiritual profusion, without operation, without tranquillity.

machine of diluted inauthenticity, of pyrrhonian scepticism, of Nietzschean uncertainty.

it's me, here, now.

and it's despairing, you know?

because when i come home, when there is no more audience,

when my worries start to be despondent,

i'm alone,

completely alone,

and that's sad.

you see, this is the moment i look at myself and think,

my god, the world is a colossal place

and i am losing myself.

i am losing myself.

and it's despairing, you know?

it is desolating to find out that you don't own the world,

you don't own the street,

you don't own yourself,

you don't own anything.

it's me, human in a desperate way.

it's me, in a (dis)infinite of time, full of pretentious and mediocre poetry,

with a panoramic view over the ruins.

it's me, alone.

and that's despairing, you know?