And if it concerns none with which path we travel,
Do we still stick ourselves with the needle?
Or perhaps this is the reason why we choose to go.
A passing without audience.
Does it really matter, if nobody notices?
We stick ourselves with the needle and thread
As others pass us by,
Unaware, consumed by their own painted blood.
We stick ourselves with needles,
Drawing pretty lines.
See mommy? This one smiles!...
We stick ourselves,
Scraping bloodied messes.
Passing out in the streets.
Why do I feel so cold?