I hear your cutlery on the table, eating your hatred. I'm like invisible, i'm not screaming, i'm writing. I've screamed enough. I've never characterized myself like a person who knows when to shut up. My fingers beat on the desk. I don't know where to go. Maybe Troubles should be my middle name. That's always the same: shouting, fights, and hide away. Always, the door closes hard. And it's always leaving me alone on the table, with blocked tears. A few steps, then I came into the room. Took a look. Where am I? Tears. Who am I? Tears. And then, stops. I'm me, I'm in my way. No more tears. Smile. Under cover: loneliness, tears again. My mind like a notepad with a lot of drafts. What's freedom looks like? The fan wants to get me better. Poor fan, he can't. Thanks, however.
Something to say? Like, I don't know: I rely in you. I'm too proud, I love you. But... why? if you can say: YOULL NEVER DO IT, YOURE NOTHING, YOU HAVE NO AIMS, YOU HAVE NO DRAFTS.

FREE TO BE WHATEVER.