I'm out of love and out of luck; I've got no time for this! Suddenly, it's as if it has hit me like a brick out of the sky. Oh and the sky. To think I could actually keep this going. I was such an idiot to believe in things that everyone knows as fiction. We write the lines between ourselves, but there's no hidden truth and no hidden love. It's like humanity thinks that if it looks hard enough, love will be found under a rock. But it's gone and lost. Probably, it's locked up somewhere. And some asshole doesn't want anyone to enjoy it. Because I'm out of it, out of luck that is. Or maybe it's out of love. Because I used to think I could change things. But I know now I can't. It's like knowing the sky is blue. We all see it each day. It sometimes has dark clouds or puffy white ones; but in the end, it stays blue day in and day out. So what am I do? It's true though. Sometimes the sky does change. I've seen organge, red, even purple--colors I thought I had never seen before. But it was just the sun. And these dreams I have of love and ideals couldn't change the sky, and certainly couldn't persuade the sun. So I'm stuck here. Telling myself this is your case. The plantiff says this and the defendant says that, but the judge cuts them off and says to me: "Son, You're not in love." So here I am. I'm a man now, like the meanest of men. I've thrown away those silly notes and photographs that make even killers cry. I've dried my eyes though. And by this time tomorrow, the garbage man can deal with my woes. Because it's all in the trash now, because I don't keep anything around--
that's fake.