Jump. You might fall. But fuck it, jump anyway.

Empty, empty as fuck. Lonely, lost and scared. That's how most of us live. No matter how many objects we fill our space rockets with, we can't escape from the thirst of wanting more. Our footsteps always just as heavy, our heads always just as filled with the hum and buzz of wanting to be perfect. Perfection, can you say what it is? Does your picket fence protect you from the unknown? Does your shiny hair reflect happiness? Does giving ten cents to charity once a month, clean your conscience? Does being indie and left field make you special? 
Who the fuck are you?