not my picture here…
Translated…
He’d, Squatted Down in the Life without You
He’d, Picked up a Knife
And Careless, Gnashed Up His Own Life
not my photograph still…
And the Part that He Just Wouldn’t Admit to Himself
Is the Story that’s Already Been, Broken
That was, Forced, to Get, Pieced Back Together
In Everybody’s Confessions of the Case
So here, we have someone who’s desperately trying to forget about what happened to the love, it’d been murdered, and yet, no matter where the character turned, he was, reminded of the loved one he’d brutally murdered, and this, would be what happens, when love is confused for possessiveness, and this, is still NOWHERE N-E-A-R the vicinity of WHAT love is!
Life, the Obstacle Course 