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He really doesn't want to even be here, at this show.
He wants all the screaming teenagers to shut up, he's got empathy for The Beatles now.
He knows that as long as he swings around and sings like he's okay, he'll be loved.
He really wants to just sit around with his family, maybe even pretend to be a normal person.
He needs a fix, the last one wasn't close enough in time to satisfy him for long.
He knows that he'll never be able to live a simple life, it slowly bothers him more each day.
He likes making music, but it conflicts with his much-needed family time.
He thinks about death a lot, but he's hanging on to it for everyone else's sakes.
He feels like he has to stay alive for all the kids he's ignoring, there always in the back of his head.
He isn't sure if he really does owe these kids a proper show, it bothers him that he's confused.
He thinks about John Lennon, maybe if he was like Lennon he'd get shot, then he wouldn't be a selfish freak.
He tries to ignore the scoliosis that has resurfaced because of all the awkward bending.
He yearns for the warmth of his mother's arms like a child, some of the time.
He molded a generation of children, a job he has grown to hate.
He looks okay from the outside, running around and breaking things while ignoring everyone.
He can hide the fact that he's slowly exploding on the inside.
He can smother it for a little bit longer.
He can pretend it'll be over soon.

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