Don’t you like the stars, the moon, the clouds? Everything that’s far away... You said you like machines—soulless things Forged by dead souls. Slow down for a little. There’s no shame. We live to die— Then who’s haunting you? Who’s plucked you by your white hair And pulled you out of solitude? You’re scared of your own reflection. Your art has been dead for a while. Wake up. Wake. It’s not time to die. Your void must be annoyed— It can’t be filled. Hey kid, Imaginary, wild, and free— Where were you? I found you behind a tree, Under a sea, In the dark, In the light, But nowhere to be found. You can be fearful of the people around— Miserable lives they lead. They don’t see skies. They cry, and years pass by— And then they die. They pray their whole lives, Yet their whole lives Were nothing less than hell. And here you are— Scared of that. Art can save us all.