I never feel good, people drift like clouds, a cup of lemony tea. There isn't much left that I haven't burned, I've dug up the treasure and relocated things, all things are in order, it's a strange preciseness that takes over, walking into a bank like a professional, offshore accounts, envelopes, broken accent, a strikingly childlike aura, it's all organized and complete, ordained, everything is set, job completed, familiar faces and places, a generic smile, my heart is dead, I still have an unbearable unhappiness, I still want the entire world scorched, and I'm privileged, a mastermind behind perfection, heavy gold bars and absolutely loyal to no one who isn't blood related, a friend to no one, a pale face and common name, a girl in a café sitting alone.