My thumb ring

I see bracelets and shiny stuff. All around me is in silence...apart from the slow motion song that doesn't leave my mind, over and over again. And my hands are covered by a tan I can't recognise from some Island I've been to.
Outside seems cold, though I'm wearing shorts and a simple white t-shirt with a simbol you pay for. I miss the cold though, and can't remember why.
There's money in the bank, cars in the garage and a closet full of shit. Expensive material everywhere, just because... But the big flat TV's off.
I wish I had a guitar, but I can't play. I'd smash it against the floor, that'd be fun. And by monday some lady would clean it, not me. But then again I was taught to clean my own dirt. By whom I try to remember through pictures and smells.
This is one of those years. All's great but the sense of it I find peculiar. Like I've dreamt a dream that isn't one, but a reality made of water, where everything flows naturally to reach the next. All but one.
I can't help wondering what the fuck I'm doing here. A place where the new replaces the filth. I'm not new, just fresh. And reinvention is my word, every now and again, though it's all in my mind...not surprising for the others, they see the sense in it.
My tattoos express the wild in my thoughts, but they use words of dolls...how beautiful...but it's not. They're the symbol of escape. They're the scream of millions of failed tryouts. I'm still here!
And learn to leave me be. If  I don't answer, don't judge my choice. I hate chatting, sometimes, and I won't play the nice to fill your expectations, not anymore. That's just me.