our last clutch at emotionsnthrusts away from suspicionsnand even the chair leaves behindncharred residues of hopennwe speculate and plannand practice on declinesnbut excessive speeding on turnsncan't prepare us for this ridennand that's what I amn'cause I'm afraid to be alonena desperate push of buttonsnto walk along in the unknownnnit's OK if the world just endsnas long as it's not just my worldnyeah, I'm particularly selfish towards the endnnwhile I'm perfectingnthe nothingness of my youthnthinking perfection'snmere moments awaynnfrom across the streetnthe apple tree growsnever feeds no humansnfruitfully it weighsnnbranches to the heavensnprophesize, unlike my ownnmy rusting coils of elationnawait the fruit that never fell...nnnow, my neighbor saysnthe skies are so clearnbut why are clouds all I see from here?n