he wasn't but my imagination

chuck chuck chuck CHUCK it all out the window that's adorned with flowers similar to the vignettes on that paper back fiction. The one that nobody could ever get through, but because it was said to be 'the best of the year' everyone labored over each tarnished word of that author that is long gone to hell, which he didn't believe in for all his might. Before he closed his eyes for the very last time, only after instilling in himself blood poisoning, before he went abraded, he used to lie awake at night. He used to think about how he was lying next to the second best physicist of the country, but it wasn't good enough, because he deserved only the best. He who had discovered the answer to why human beings were digging their own graves, He who made Woody Allen stutter, He deserved only the best. So he thought anyway. So instead of lying in bed and welcoming sleep, he went out to find himself the best. He wasn't looking anymore for the best physicist or the best person to sleep beside, or within. He wasn't looking anymore for the best method to find sleep. He went on to look, I think, for the best place to lie awake in. He wouldn't have found it if he hadn't lost his humour, his compassion. He wouldn't have found it if he hadn't sold his soul to the angel's guile. But he found it none the less. he found the best place to lie awake in all night, he found it inside my head. And then he chuck chuck chuck CHUCKED it all out the window.