Its a synesthesia that collides with every possible mixture of colour, An echo that sounds like a screech of a violin or a manic pianist performing, It's neon, but it is also absence of colour It is insomnia while mid-day. And oh god i love the antithesis, How gracefully people have baptized us bipolar, For how elegant and harmonic my self is. How much i adore, the differences The escalations. How romanticised My torture is.