Because when you fall through windows

into someone else's story, you've no other choice but to be, be, be.
(And watch it all fall to pieces at your feet).

I know, it's trite. But I can't always be wrong. My brain won't slow down, so I can't get to sleep, but it's more than that. Because when you're eighteen, it's always more than that. Right? Am I right?

Every time this old house creaks, I lose a little bit of sanity.

There's so much more I'd like to say. But I'm an insomaniac. So I won't say a word.