Another night looking into the darkness of your own eyes.
You wished you had the chance to run away.
You got it.
You took it.
And now, every broken bone of yours is healing. Meanwhile, your soul is shattering to pieces.
They say, an open crack can be either terrifyingly ugly or mesmerizingly beautiful.
Well, that one looked like a huge planet buried within dullness and destruction.
They ask, and your gloomy eyes smile it off as if it was nothing.
But it's everything.
The dreamers are bound to break.
The realists are bound to become dreamers.
One second, you're floating and the next moment you see yourself falling into the deep shadiness of this lilac planet, wondering how you got into that mess in the first place.
But it's too late.
And you're talking to purple butterflies and blue caterpillars.
And you feel happily free for one... two... three... four seconds.
Then, the bottle of whiskey is over.
You turn the lights off.
Another night daydreaming.
But tell me... Is it too late?