He’s done.
Why is he still alive?
Long ago he stopped living, but still he remains, pouring himself another drink, putting on another playlist, writing another memo to the void.

The drinker is a boring tale.
The drinker is going nowhere.
The drinker is getting stale.
The drinker is full of show-care.
The drinker is an empty husk
His soul has left his chest
Left in the rain, he rusts.
Caught by some pain, he’s pressed
against the clapboard wall
of an old shed ready to fall

The drinker is done
So what does the man inside the drinker do?
The emptiness won
So what does the plan inside the world come to?

I’m on the give-up
I’m on the fall-apart
I wanted to tell someone
about how it hurts
and how I can’t solve it
can’t riddle my way out of it
how I need a friend who would believe me but no one believes me and I can’t even believe me anymore, but still this truth (not any kind of Truth!) undoes me from the inside out.

But all that
feels like a luxury
in this time of war
in this age of evil
in this crime sneaking through
in this lie winning easy
in this sabotage invited in, no, no need to hide in a Trojan horse or anything! Come right in! We’re ready!