With insomnia, nothing is real. Everything is far away. Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.
Looking in the mirror, I find my face sagging down. I begin to accept what they probably call "fate". Everything that begins must at some point, end.
I have, like most of us must have, tried to figure out the answer to why we all exist. My purpose however, was to find the reason for my existence. I never did though. But in the place where I am, it doesn't really matter any more. May be we really are here to just be "happy", but again, not everyone thinks like that.
We are the middle children of history. No purpose or place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.
Tyler's words coming out of my mouth. And I used to be such a nice guy.