Now I have paid the price, I am running on empty. And really, I'm not running at all.
If I had learned silence when I was given the chance, all would be quiet and much more controlled.
I yearn for noise-fasting, though I fear that somehow I'll be forgotten.
I call on myself as I shake, hoping that somehow the pieces will fit,
that nothing is lost, though this can't be.
Imagine the elderly lady you know, who lives down your street.
She's bent and she's weak, she picks up her bags
her shopping is scattered, you can't see what's happened,
you know she could cry.
Look at her. She's me.
Look at my shame. And now?
It all goes white as I fall...