We are the children of God, we are the children of science, we are the children of consumerism, we are the children of unloving parents. Question: if a baby cries and no one hears it, does it make a sound? No mummy's kisses and no daddy's smiles, nobody wants me, I'm nobody's child. We are rejected by society. We offend their sense of propriety. Our scarred arms and empty hearts shatter their happy illusions. Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry. We cower in corners, dripping blood on the carpet. Don't make a mess now, die quietly please, you're disturbing the good little boys and girls. We are the personality disordered, we are the terminally fucked up. We despise the daily grind of normality. What is this rat race? These rats are running round and round their little wheels, caged and at the mercy of the hand that feeds them. We are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams. We are your poets, your artists, your singers, your tortured souls. Don't try to fix me I'm not broken. We throw down the rose-tinted glasses and step through the looking-glass. Your mundane lives are a lovely dream and we live in cruel reality. Change your perspective and challenge your perception. In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king and my eyes are staring wide. The joker sees too much and too deeply. Play the fool and speak the truth. Tear down the castle walls. We are the children of insecure attachments, perpetuating a lineage of sorrow and pain. We are the children of Bowlby.