Lately, I feel as if the world has turned cold. A human is an industry of wants and needs. When sales are high, the products are high; in popularity. The sales have taken a downfall, and I haven't any use. Slowly, everything has eased its way away from me. I'm last month's jeans; yesterday's dinner; an orphan child; a fallen Autumn leaf. I'm a prostitute with syphilis: dried up and old with knowledge. I sell my life away, and for what? Irony. Irony controls everything. If I were to live no one would care. Why?- Because I'm unwanted. I'm a knock-off for $19.95, because I'm desparate. I've finished my search for individuality, but I am once again looking, for thoose who will give me love. My brain has disconnected from my body; including my heart. I've been traded in for a better model, and I have to face that. It's okay. I'm okay. I've been handed my death sentence, and I'm ready to take it.