Wicked tale

Here is where the broken ones come together, the derailed and wounded and those who mourn, the lost in existence, bewildered of life's antics, those who fell off the sidelines, frayed spirits truthful in their emotions, every now and then somebody that's happy without intervention. If a sign of nearness escapes amid fleeting gestures or a look gets through the centrifuge of dark thoughts, if a sincere tone resonates among rude words – only then the essential is recognizable. Yet I do not belong among this souls and do not rest with a bottle of beer in my hand, too many empty phrases that lead nowhere, words produce eddy just for the voices sake. Only if the mirrored surfaces are broken, if we gain spaces by ignoring the appearances we seem genuine in our hopelessness.