The most untidy place I know.
Where do most thoughts go when they die? Do they fall into an abyss? Do they drift into the heavens? What do thoughts do for them to die?
Look it's not my fault. They are their own, I am my own. I'm not responsible for my thoughts. They are.
And I Hate it.
Why can't I have control over my thoughts?
Think for a moment.
Call for them and they'll come. They'll come.
They should be golden servants in the palace of their queen. But they're untidy, and dirty. How they are allowed to walk in the palace in their shabby, soot-covered hair and crisp, frayed clothes, I don't have a guess to give.
They reek of a horrid influence with sympathy for some but mostly for themselves. But they didn't make it through to the grand hall; the guards threw them out.
This is not a trivial matter.
You're coming in way past night-time, and in the most dreadful attire I can think of. Your self-esteem is unmatchable, your persona is a wreck- a series of unregistered faults passed off by luck.
You haven't given up have you? The palace is lagging behind. You play a game, vicious and foul, with no means of getting out.
Listen to yourself.
Listen to the queen.
You will not be accepted
Drift on the Von-Neumann machine.
How lonely you must be
Oh you cancer of mental hygiene.
The foulest thing I've seen
Or heard throughout my life.
How you whisper, conquer then divide
The homicide of bona fide
Where will you end?