It feels like someone is strangling me. It ain't enough to kill me, but enough to make my chest itch, searching for a different kind of air. It's that stagnant kind of air. Not the kind you breathe to stay alive, but the kind to keep you afloat.
Yep, everyone's just trying to float in this massive social ocean.
That guy in the dark leather jacket, drowned a few years ago, but I guess that's what you get for being a habitual abuser.
Miss bright-red lipstick over there is barely holding her nostrils above the water, but what kind of air is she even breathing, I wonder? Can't be good for the lungs, that's for sure.
See me, I developed gills. I didn't mind letting the water take me. It's places like this that remind me of the stagnant air I used to breathe. It's an acrid-flavored air.
The tiers of importance and power, the social staircase, they're lined with the putrid corpses of drown victims and people screaming for help. It sure ain't easy to live in a place with no help.
The problem is, people are so afraid of searching the bottom of the deep, dark ocean that they won't even take the chance to find out what's there. They float desperately at the top until either, they die face down in whatever killed them, or they give up and drown, never getting to see what they were so afraid of in the first place.
You've got to grow some gills.
You've got to grab hold of Fear and tell her who's running the show.
And it sure ain't you, kiddo.