There's a crack between "perfect" and I've stared at it's colors. It's a dream to be marveled and all, but it smells too familiar.

And yesterday I bit an apple and it tasted too bitter, but I chewed til I hit the core and I even chewed further.

When I start seeing you, my friends tell me you're fiction. That you're not a beautiful absolute, but a mere fabrication. But you're just as real to me, and maybe more amply. So if I had to make my decision, I'd choose insanity.

Sometimes I play house for hours, but your fort is better. And even when I'm happy and all, I still dial your number. When I finger paint my walls and when it dries, I'll leave room for your picture.