Stuck in hole.

I want to be the writer that Fiona Apple is. I was never cut out to write songs, especially love songs.
I know i feel like saying nothing in particular. Have i said anything whole in the seven days?
I don't get comments on these livejournals any more, so i'm pretty sure that noone reads them.
It is so much more interesting when you can't say what you mean, but in a painful, empty way, befitting...i don't know what it befits.
But i don't want to be dreary, i don't want to be a drag, just light up another cigarette, and call yourself a fag. Forget that there's anyone waiting for you, forget that they are there, because everyone is dying away, pining for that last goodbye, off to seek another one as soon as they are done.
Hordes and hordes of silly blind mice, running from the cat, meowing to come home.
And I am NOT a mouse. Brown eyed black and slinky cat, squeezing through the window cracks, sweep me up, devour me, gurgle up and burgle me, i have no posession, and i won't go away. If it's painful, if it's sweet, if it's sour, it doesn't do me good to spit it out. I need nourishment like a cat stuck in the mountains, and baby, so do you.
Comes the day, i can't leave but i can't stay, i will say goodbye...because i can't help but lie.