Don't know what this is, not a song. Typed it mostly in a trance, the isomnia is worse than any drug. Our illusions are what make us real. Mine are gone now... Nothing but a bitter husk of existence. Lines blurred between fantasy and reality, Nightmares and peace. Crying out for a saviour, Dying to be loved, Dying from no love. To be held, to hold. But what of that is real? We live the lie, So that we can see the truth. Our beliefs keep our balance, Regardless of substance. Without them we crumble in chaos. Lost in the chaos now, Gravel in a stone-chip sea. Without the lies the truth cuts, Scarring like any blade... Still... what of that is real?