There's no such cure, is there, as the one I seek? No opiate to sooth, no morphine to numb; no hallucinogen to make me dream of another place.
Drip. Drip. I'm so hollow inside that you can hear the obscene echo of my thoughts as they melt from my brain, pooling into a noxious waste somewhere near your feet. But you don't care. To you they're beautifully, but tragically tainted - a puddle with an ugly streak of oil which casts pretty colours if you happen to look the right way; fleetingly beautiful, but ultimately hideous.
Don't look too hard; you might see that these words are rotting - bleeding ink looks like gangrene, all purple and black and green. Tragically, disgustingly beautiful; and utterly wasted on you.