always & forever: absent-minded

«in this cold room I call my own,
I'm standing on my tiptoes.
trying to graze the ceiling, to be gone;
crying like a weirdo.»

The noise of messy machinery, of constant beeping, the whispers.

A blue-like death asphyxiated my room, the only thing that'd save me from drowning were the swaying curtains. In the afternoon, that room would be the ocean; dim light reflections would waft in an endless cycle—such a beautiful yet empty sight.

I could do nothing but sleep, and wait for another day to pass.

"Good things don't last."