But your heart is filled with smoke, like your lungs, rather than sympathy or love or anything good in the universe. And you take pride in that. And you're head is above Mount Everest, but I just want to hang it on my chandelier. Your words are subtle, just light enough to not sting. But as you know, things build. And I feel your sting, then it rushes through my blood like poison. And when it makes its way to my head, I realize. But I can't say a word.... because I'm dead.