Mistakes are my sonar
but nothing ever reverberates
how I'm supposed to get a sense of where is up and down
a sense of depth and relief
whatever I do nothing ever comes back at me
and the world
the world is emptiness

how come I cherish on my skin a scent that is not mine
the strong scent of sweat that is not mine

To create meaningful stuffs / you must feel and suffer
but I'm hiding (rotting away) in a fucked-up cocoon
and though I'm looking through a tear in the fabric in hunger
I don't want out

a mediocre mind paralysed in fear striving for greatness.
What an utterly boring tragedy.