The children here are much like me or different from me. Yet, they all want me to talk out my reasons for being here. Munchkins, why are you here? Tell me your story, little snail. I can only stay silent as I watch them mingle and mutter, telling stories about their past, in the kitchen, on the dining table, on the hallways, in the playground, and on and on. They can't stop talking, as if they were drunk in realization making them intoxicated with those blank, empty memories. They're slowly dissolved in bile, turning them into liquid of lies.
I just kept my words, even I was drunken with them. I just let myself drown in my heart full of hate.