The cup is not half empty as pessimists say, as far as he sees nothing's left in the cup, a whole cup full of nothing for him to indulge, since the voice of ambition has long since been shut up. A singer, a writer, he's not dreaming now of going no where, he gave heed to nothing and all that he was is just a tragedy. So he voyages in circles succeeds getting nowhere and submits to the substance that first got him there, there, there, there. Violent frustration, he cries out to God or just no one, is there a point to this madness, and all that he was is just a tragedy. He feels alone, his heart in his hand, he's alone, he feels like, I feel...Then on that last day he breaks, and he stood tall, then he yelled, then he yelled, and took his life (Why world? WHY WORLD? Hate you! HATE YOU! BYE WORLD!) Violent frustration, he cries out to God or just no one, is there a point to this madness, and all that he was is just a tragedy...