I talk to those who no one hears, because no one notices them, they stand on street corners, muttering into what they presume is the dark night, but I hear them, and engage them. To me they speak of us not only of them, they have the same reality as me, and they seek to defend
It to those who say it is not real, knowing that it is, in their mind they feel,
So I say to you are they really that wrong, hearing voices, and the gong of death? Are their cries of madness from a reality left? Or simply different because they see things you cannot? Is their reality poison or are they simply caught? Captivated by thing you hear not?
Distracted by things you can’t see, that we notice with fervent impunity?