And When I'm Dead, The Echo Begins

i just reached the end where words mean anything.

The only thing left is to become more like you

so we could talk.

And there I am faced with myself,

with no training on what to do next.

Maybe there never was training for this,

this being exactly what you want,

no step predestined or requested.

The horrible drug of being yourself,

with the same DNA as everybody else,

and all your thoughts boxed up, shipped out,

sold,

until you next think of food.

Run out of story, run out of land.

The rest is sea

Just the dark, calling sea.