I’m feeling emo, and I’m super tired and numb and drugged out.
Stupid fucking bird! You’re too damn happy (I’m secretly jealous).
I bet your life’s just perfect, isn’t it?
I want to drink some fancy wine and get totally hammered,
So I can leave all the bullshit of life behind,
And just go chill with my new friend, the bird.
I don’t want to be with civilization right now (obviously, since I’m hanging out it the woods).
Youth, beauty, love, and happiness all fade away, and I really can’t deal with that shit.
Actually, wait. Drinking is totally not the way to solve my problems.*
I want to be like, you, Mr. Nightingale – you express yourself through singing,
So I’m going to make myself feel better by writing poems.
Also, the forest at night is really beautiful.
Well, I don’t actually know that it’s beautiful, ’cause it’s fucking dark as shit!
I’m imagining it though, and in my head it’s fucking gorgeous.
Did I mention that I’m totally suicidal? ‘Cause I am.
I think about dying pretty often, and right now I’m even more tempted to off myself than usual.
It would be pretty sweet to kill myself while you were singing all happily.
Oh wait. If I killed myself, I wouldn’t be able to hear you anymore.
The cool thing about birds is that they sort of don’t die.
A bunch of old dudes – like historical dudes – have heard a nightingale singing,
And right now I hear you singing.
So, like, you exist at every point in the history of people. Sweet.
Man, this has been fun or whatever, but I think I’m gonna leave the woods now.
I feel better. Seriously.
… Ok, now that I’m out of the forest, I’m not even sure if any of that was real.
Man, that’s trippy.
*How do we know he said this? ‘Cause he says he doesn’t want to be “charioted by Bacchus and his pards,” which is totally some mythology shit, and Bacchus was a god who was famous for drinking.
