PART III: “Got your mind in submission. Got your life on the line”
Once inside, I felt frustrated and angry initally, especially with Mister PorkFace for putting me here.
I began pacing around the main room. They still hadn’t given me my phone back, let alone my laptop. For now, the only thing I was permitted to have were my clothes. I felt like they were punishing me.
Not knowing where to go or what to do, they showed me to my room. Yes, I had my own private quarters. I sat on the bed and looked around.
Everything, what little there was, was modern and lamintated. No real wood, no natural materials, fully synthetic surfaces. It all looked very sterile. That’s the only way I can describe it. Minimalist, solid and sterile.
There were bedside tables, but there was no drawers in them – they were just like these hollow, extruded square shapes, with a strong base for support, that’s literally all there was to them.
The bed was positioned perpendicular to the wall, like in a traditional hospital. But 90° opposite to what you might expect in a veritable cell, given the level of security elsewhere. Unlike in a hospital, this bed was rock solid, like it had been built into the very foundation of the building. It wouldn’t budge. Come to think of it, it looked a bit like a bed you might find in an surgical operating theatre. Even those appear to be more mobile I would think. More like the bed Frankenstein woke up on. Yes, exactly like that. Like it could support a 500lb man without any problem, but way too narrow to accomodate someone of that stature in any case. All that were missing were the straps going across it to physically restrain someone.
Rooms were very sparse indeed: just the bed dominating the centre portion of the room, the aforementioned bedside table, a type of wall desk with some open shelves adjoined to it (with no cupboard doors obviously).
Everything was a continual reminder, though, as to why we were there. Everything was specifially designed to minimise risk of either self harm or harm towards others. And I mean everything. There were no protruding door knobs or handles anywhere in sight. So people couldn’t injure themselves. And the reason I’m decribing this place in such detail in the first place, is because photographs were strictly prohibited (more on that below).
Interestingly, there was a separate ensuite in one corner of the room, with it’s own door. Despite that second door and its association with privacy, I could never have a shower longer than about 5 minutes before one of the staff knocked outside the main one to confirm my presence and ask whether I was alright.
Inside, the taps were designed very differently to what you might expect. It appears their design criteria included the inability to significantly harm oneself on them, or harm someone else on them (and that was definitely prioritised over their ease of use). As such, they were much harder to turn on and off than normal taps. I can’t remember now but I’m pretty sure that both the sink basin and toilet were not made of traditional ceramic materials as you’ve seen them in bathrooms elsewhere, such as stoneware, earthware or porcelain –but rather– solid metal. If you saw the design brief for this institution, I bet it probably would have read “f r a g i l e / b r i t t l e m a t e r i a l s b a n n e d u n d e r a l l c i r c u m s t a n c e s !”.
I’m pretty sure the mirrors weren’t made of glass, either. It was difficult to tell, because they were bolted to the walls with loads of torx screws. Nothing was left simply “hanging freely” on the walls. Nothing! Everything was either bolted down or else removed, so that people couldn’t throw anything of substantial weight around. It all gave the impression that they’d “been there, done that” with respect to any sort of problem breakages.
Signs on the wall stated that the rooms were “electrically protected”, whatever that means. I presume it means we couldn’t electrocute ourselves even if we wanted to. They didn’t trust any one of us. Not with anything.
Every night, the night shift staff would do their rounds and check on us to see how we were doing. Every hour they would come. All through the night; they’d shine a torch light into our rooms, right in our face. To make sure we were still alive, basically. Slightly annoying when you are trying to get some sleep in strange surroundings. Still, in many ways, it felt comforting, to be looked upon like that.
I thought of many ways I could potentially kill myself in there, as a last resort. Like hanging myself with the belt I was wearing, electrocution, or cutting myself by dismantling the two-blade disposable razor they had loaned me. All of the ‘obvious’ ways. And I even thought one not so obvious one: swallowing excessive quantities of plain old ordinary everyday drinking water. They hadn’t thought of that, had they? To restrict the flow of running water. Yes, if you are ‘clever’, there are always ways one can find to try to kill one’s self.
I’m not sure on what day it was, but on one of the days during my stay I had another, longer meeting with a different psychiatrist –via teleconference– with two others present beside me. This particular psychiatrist (let’s call him #2) had at least understood where I was coming from and why I was so depressed. I had told him about recent changes in my life and my concerns for the future of this world.
I asked them rhetorically: “why is it okay for this civilisation, this society, to act suicidally and yet I cannot even be permitted to have suicidal thoughts?”. There was no immediate answer. One of the Doctors nodded in agreement while continuing tapping away at his laptop. He didn’t look up. He just nodded and typed simultaneously.
And I told them all about why I was worried. Because here I had an audience. Even if it was only three people. They were three important people. Because if you know anything about this blog, then you already know that I am very concerned about the state of the environment. About what I would describe as a continual attack on nature — as if we were at war and it were the enemy. About what scientists are now describing as “the 6th great extinction”. About ‘development’ really being an oxymoron. And that we’re not separate from nature. That we rely on nature. That we humans still rely on nature. That we are still very much a part of nature. And that biodiversity inspires people — creative people. That much research, some of the best research, yes even with synthetic materials, relies on biodiversity. Biomimicry. That biodiversity provides eco system services. That it’s our life-support system. That ultimately we need biodiversity. That what we are doing, I believe, is not sustainable in the long term. That something has to change. Because civilisations rise and then sooner or later they fall.
I was hoping that it would all be written down and recorded somewhere. That at least this one root cause of my depression would filter through all of our government bureaucracy — for someone even more important to read and evaluate at a later date. I told them who I was and that I even had a Doctorate in Materials Science. As if that somehow mattered more. I wanted them to know that this one scientist at the very least had reached his own personal limit. That maybe they would be seeing more and more of us. And then maybe something might be done about it.
The other nurse pulled me aside later on and said that he agreed with me about what I was saying. Number 2 had reccommended that I be released “either today or tomorrow” — but I found out later that he was overruled by number 1, the porky one.
Another day went by. I started getting into an argument with a totally *ignorant* security guard inside the psych ward about the state of the world. About how the natural environment was in decline. He was in classic state of denial and so I threw some hard facts at him. I wonder how long people can continue to fool themselves like this? I mean, surely some environmental news must penetrate through to them? Of course, all the patients know what is going on. And maybe that should tell you something.
Anway, I asked him how many scientists he had talked to. “None”, he said. “Well you’re talking to one now!”, I retorted. Was it arrogant? Yes. Yes it was. Very! But you have to remember I was literally at my breaking point. And I have become tired of being diplomatic and politically correct all the time. There’s simply too much at stake. I feel like I have my own “duty of care” so to speak.
Then he finally said: “Well what do you want me to do?!” (with a definite attitude, like it was a rhetorical question). 1
My friend looked (glared) at me as if to say “Shut up! Don’t esculate the situation further! Think about where you are!!”. He was right. After that, I decided to totally back off because that is not the best place to lose one’s temper (if they have to, they’ll stick a needle in your butt to tranquilise you as they escort you to the so called “high dependency” ward). You can’t get angry because you are constantly being monitored. Well you can– but then there are instant repercussions for that sort of unruly behaviour. They don’t tolerate it.
I also thought about piling up some chairs and scaling the 20ft outside walls. But I was told by other patients that it only makes things worse and that’s when they would call the cops and/or drag me into what is called the “high dependency” section of the ward. If you did manage to escape they would only come looking for you at home. And so what’s the point?
No, you don’t need a doctor
No one else can heal your soul
Got your mind in submission
Got your life on the line
But nobody pulled the trigger
They just stepped aside
They’ll be down by the water
While you watch ’em wavin’ goodbyeAxl Rose, Coma GNR.
PART I: “There were always ample warnings. There were always subtle signs.”
I had an appointment with a mental health worker the day before my admission to the psych ward.
The reason I was there in the first place was that I had asked my GP about it. I wanted more frequent visits with a mental health professional. A counsellor or something. Someone like Deanna Troi. Someone nice that I could talk to about my innermost feelings. Because it helps to get things off your chest. It helps to talk.
They say you shouldn’t let your skeletons out of the closet. Suicide is still a very taboo subject, so I thought long and hard about posting this. In the end, I decided to hit ‘publish’.
But I also wanted to speak with a psychiatrist directly in order to check up on my medication. Because they are the experts and I didn’t think Cymbalta was working properly. So I had asked my GP to see a psychiatrist. She in turn had offered to provide a referral, I had said “I would like that very much” and she obliged. Good. Finally I was getting somewhere.
I called them to make the appointment. I thought I would get to speak with a psychiatrist straight away. I don’t know if the person I spoke to first was a community health worker or an occupational therapist. She told me “it doesn’t work that way”, that “there’s a screening process”. I would get to see her three times first, and if approved, only then I would get to see a psychiatrist. This was the first visit.
After 45 minutes of answering questions, I still didn’t know if I qualified or not. Apparently psychiatrists are in short supply in regional areas (they even fly in from Sydney to do mental health assessments and then fly out a few hours later). Interesting.
They asked me whether I had any suicidal thoughts and I said yes. Why lie?
Previously I only ever had fleeting thoughts which is fairly normal I think. Personally I consider suicide the last and least desirable option. But it still is an option and it should be my right to that option if I so choose.
The next question is always “Do you have a plan?”. I didn’t think I did. Not really. I said I didn’t have a time or a place (yet… it was always pretty vague).
She delved deeper. I had eliminated some suicide methods like slashing my wrists (I hate the sight of blood), shooting myself (too much mess) or jumping off a cliff (about one year ago I had walked to the edge of a cliff to suss that out). And I had told them about that too.
No. For me, I was looking at just taking loads of sleeping pills, to send me off into a neverending blissful sleep.
But for my weight, the lethal dosage, the LD50 it’s called because there is a 50% survival rate, is something like 200 to 2000 tablets! I didn’t have enough. And I told them that, too. She went to say something and stopped herself. I think she didn’t want to give me any ideas.
I told her that I didn’t want to destroy my kidneys or my liver by taking too many pills. Plus that was not the right way. Not effective enough.
Well in case you are wondering, I read that overdosing just fucks up your kidneys/liver and cause great agony in the process. Meaning you just don’t die in your sleep, chances are that you wake up choking on your own vomit, have a heart attack or respiratory failure / asphyxiation, none of which sounds pleasant. I didn’t want that. Doing that would add to my problems.
I had also told her that I had imagined holding a gun to my head and testing how far I could pull the trigger (I don’t know how far you need to pull the trigger, I’ve never even held a gun). I had told her I don’t like guns, but that it was lucky I didn’t own a gun because I might have already tested it out. I had imagined my dead body lying on the floor.
One of the last things she asked me about was what (if anything) makes me happy. I told her about my dog. She turned to her computer and said to me “just keep an eye on that dog”. My dog is what is called a “protective factor”. If something were to happen to that dog, I would not be in a good frame of mind. Who knows what might have happened if that had occurred? I dread to think.
That same night I started to actively ‘research’ it. Personally, I wouldn’t consider a few google searches and reading half a dozen websites true ‘research’, but there you go. Later on, I was dwelling on it for hours on end in bed when I should be sleeping. I looked back upon my browsing history just now and it appears I typed into google “easiest overdoses“. Not good.
I was landing on pages like this one. And this one. And this one. And this one. My background is scientific research and to me this was nothing. This wasn’t even ‘research’, it was just me sussing things out. I read them all.
See, what I was thinking about wasn’t going to be a suicide attempt. It was not to “attract attention” as you might be thinking. No. I had actively researched the most effective and efficient suicide methods. I had typed into google things like “easiest overdoses“. I had ignored the special little google window that pops up in first place and says:
Need help? Australia:
13 11 14
Lifeline Australia
Hours: 24 hours, 7 days a week
Languages: English
Website: https://www.lifeline.org.au
I don’t know why but I wasn’t going to call Lifeine until I was ready to actually go through with something. That’s what I was waiting for, the last moment. Only then would I call. Why waste people’s valuable time?
All I can say is that if you have lingering suicidal thoughts you shouldn’t wait that long, because by then the chances are that you may go through with it (and unfortunately lots of people do). Besides, what happens if you are waiting for that one conversation to stop you and then your phone dies for whatever reason? Luckily for me I had professional help long before any actual suicide attempt. I personally think I was about one to three months away (assuming my situation worsened).
She called me the next day just after midday (I was asleep). She actually asked if I was asleep and I said ‘yes’. That never looks good. Had a brief chat with her. She asked if I had any more suicidal thoughts and I told her that I had thought about it for a few hours. I could tell she was a bit annoyed because she said: “why didn’t you call the number I gave you?”. I honestly don’t remember how I responded to that question.
At that point, she suggested a voluntary admission into the local hospital. I asserted that I didn’t want my freedom taken away from me (like I told her being with my dog makes me happy, plus a couple of other things but not that many to be honest). I said I needed to post something first. She said “can someone else post it for you?”. I said “yes, probably”. That was when she said “mate, you’re actively researching it, you have a plan, you need to get yourself to a hospital”. So she eventually/ultimately talked me into it.
She just said to gather some clothes and I can’t remember what else because quite honestly it was all a bit hazy from then on.
On top of that, she stipulated a time. By that point it was 12:45pm. She said if I wasn’t at the emergency department by 1:30pm they would send someone to come and get me. I don’t know if that would have been police or not, I didn’t ask, but I suppose by that point I realised I was sicker than I thought I was and just accepted the situation — better to walk in voluntarily than be dragged in kicking and screaming.
Yes they probably do have the power to do that (call the cops) based on a mental health assessment. I found out later that yes police do have the power and authority to detain you; you can be ‘sectioned’ under the mental health act and taken to a psychiatric hospital, using force if necessary.
Until then, I never even considered visiting a psychiatric ward, I thought they were for more serious schizophrenic-types of patients, not chronically depressed people. I actually thought I would be going to something called a “sub-acute” ward, one that is not locked (I think). I also expected to talk my way out of it. For some reason, I couldn’t. So they kinda tricked me into it but it’s probably a good thing they did, because by the time I got out, it woke me up.
There were always ample warning
There were always subtle signs
And you would have seen them coming
But we gave you too much time
And when you said that no one’s listening
Why’d your best friend drop a dime
Sometimes we get so tired of waiting for a
Way to spend our timeAxl Rose, Coma GNR.
PARTII: “They’ll be waitin’ for an answer but you know nobody’s home.”
Believe it or not, but I just spent all of last week in the loony bin… here’s how it happened:
Yes I was admitted to hospital over a week ago. First to the local emergency department. And then later transferred 1.5 hours away to the nearest mental health unit (aka “psychiatric ward” aka “lunatic asylum”). This is how my journey began.
I decided to opt for the back seat because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. The nurse sat beside me with the driver in front. I was very quiet, looking out the window at the world go by. At about the half way mark, I started to get nervous, because they were mentioning this thing called a “psych ward” with increasing frequency. Previously they had really only told me that I was being transferred to another larger hospital.
The nerves morphed into nausea. I told them I felt sick. I asked for more air. They gave me a vomit bag. The driver pulled over and not long afterwards, I vomited. Ugh. It must have been the blood test on the empty stomach that did it (and sitting in the back seat). They offered for me to move to the front seat. Pretty soon, I started to feel much better and started talking to the driver. We both agreed: this world is in trouble. And if you’ve been reading this blog, you know why. The nurse asked me: “Is all this why you’re depressed?”. “Partially”, I replied. “Partially.”
I was fine for the rest of the trip, but I was disoriented. We arrived at this weird-looking building with tall, thin vertical windows with corrugated iron cladding. I’d never been here before. I remember being escorted through several locked security doors. The sun was high up in the sky and I couldn’t tell which way was North.
We ended up in a little interrogation room and they told me to take a seat. There was a single chair with armrests in the center of the room. I sat, wondering whether or not to get myself comfortable by using the backrest. It was all a bit odd. They kept asking me if I knew why I was here. I knew. Truthfully? I don’t even remember what else they asked me. Probably my name and date of birth.
Oh I remember! There was a multiple choice questionnaire, that’s right. A K10 anxiety and depression checklist, not the usual Depression and Anxiety Stress Scale (DASS) scoring template I was already familiar with.
“About how often do you feel depressed?”, the nurse asked with a cheery voice. “All of the time”, I responded bleakly. She filled in the little circle at the far right end of the same row. “About how often did you feel that everything was an effort?”, the nurse asked. “All of the time”, by now almost monotone. She filled in another little circle at the far right end. The month prior, my depression scores were listed as ‘severe’. They literally could not get any worse.
I remember being told to remove all of my belongings except the clothes I was wearing (for some reason I got to keep my wallet although they did ask for that too). Without my phone and car keys weighing down both pockets I felt almost naked. I was searched with a metal detector.
Then I was escorted through another set of double doors commonly seen throughout hospitals. I’m pretty sure they had a metal grid inside the window portion, for added security. My purple Crumpler® messenger bag sat on the floor on the other side of that doorway. I think here is when the shock really started to set in because –unlike at an airport security checkpoint– I was not immediately reunited with my possessions.
Once inside, they sat me down at a round table which was bolted to the floor with sturdy metal L-shaped brackets. I was presented with a piece of paper to sign. I began to read through the document, which was printed on a single sheet of A4-sized paper. It was the terms and conditions regarding my voluntary admission.
I think it all seemed pretty routine for the nurse. As for me, I was still in a state of complete shock. I hesitated for a moment. There were about eight people in the room. Lord knows what was wrong with them. Another patient wandered over in my direction, and, keeping his distance, said to me in rather a loud voice something along the lines of: “Can I give you some advice? don’t stay here if you don’t have to be here, everyone wants to get out of here if you can leave just go get out of here don’t sign anything!”, like it was one drawn out sentence with no pauses in between. Hmmm. Not a good sign.
I glanced around this room and outside towards the 20-foot security walls and the abundance of dull grey cement and concrete (yes I know the difference between the two by the way). It all all looked very sterile. Even the raggedy-looking tomato plant appeared to be depressed. To me, it all looked (and felt) like a virtual prison. That’s probably because that’s exactly what it was!
I also noticed that there was a complete lack of art on the walls –and taking this complete stranger’s sage advice– decided not to sign. It all seemed like a very depressing environment to be in and I just didn’t want to be there. “Fuck ’em!”, I thought. “I’m not staying here a moment longer than I have to”, I resigned. Besides, I held this belief: “Shit, this is really going to interfere with my work” somewhere in the back of my mind.
“I can’t sign that.”, I said. Out loud. “I won’t sign.”, I said again, emphatically. Now I don’t know if everyone realises this, but there’s a whole world of difference between the two words “can’t” and “won’t” (for some people at least). And I thought that saying both of them strongly enough, sequentially, that they would somehow synergistically add up and give me a tiny bit more clout than either word used alone would. Nope.
“I don’t need to be here”, I thought, looking around the room one last time, utterly convinced of my decision-making abilities. “What happens if I don’t sign?”, I then asked (inquisitively and a admittedly a little belatedly). “If you don’t sign we can keep you for up to two hours until you see a doctor who can release you”, I was promptly told. “Well two hours is better than two weeks”, I muttered to myself, and stubbornly refused to cooperate with them any further.
I don’t exactly remember what happened next –whether I was standing or sitting or where– but it wasn’t long before I was ushered by one of the nurses into another small private room. A large man with a somewhat porky face and dark complexion walked in. I started answering a whole bunch of his questions. And then I realised I didn’t even know who the fuck I was talking to. I couldn’t even remember his name. “Are you a psychiatrist?” I asked, once again belatedly. “Yes I’m a type of psychiatrist” he said with a charming English accent. And I was like “okay… fine… good… I’ll be able to prove to this bloke of my sanity… finally I get to talk to someone intelligent!”.
Please keep in mind that I just wanted to leave this place and go straight back home to pat my dog. Because it’s the little things like that that make me feel ‘happy’. Access to all of those little creature comforts we tend to take for granted. Plus my freedom. And I thought that if they made me stay –if they forced me to– there was a fairly strong chance I’d either throw a temper tantrum, try to escape or worse yet kill myself. There was just no way this was going to work for me. Because I was already at rock bottom. “I can’t stay here two weeks.”, I said, while shaking my head resoundingly as I often do for added effect.
Once again, I was asked whether I knew why I was here. Maybe the real problem was that I was too honest? Yesterday, I had visited my local community health centre. To try and get some more help. Because I felt that the monthly visits to my psychologist were not enough. They were helping –sure– but only very slowly (cognitive behavioral therapy or CBT as it is known is inherently a slow process). So I had told the occupational therapist my latest thoughts. I had told her everything. That’s why I was here in the first place… of course I knew why I was here.
He told me that they were worried about me and spun the old “duty of care” argument. Uh oh… I could see where this was going…
Because although I didn’t wanted to kill myself right there and then in that exact moment, I had dwelled on it for some time. I hadn’t completely ruled out the possibility of doing something like that in the future. If my situation were to get worse for example, as a kind of an escape route from my relentless suffering. Like if my mum or my sister died, or some other fairly drastic and unexpected life event. For example if my dog was ever taken away from me — simply being with her was one of life’s few remaining pleasures.
Quite frankly, yes, I was almost over it. I almost could not take any more. Almost. I had had around forty hours of cognitive behaviorial therapy in the last three years alone. My change of career was about ten times harder than I ever imagined. I didn’t feel very successful. I had no motivation left. My sleeping patterns were a complete mess. I felt hopeless. Useless. I had basically had enough of it. It might be the least desirable option, but it’s still an option. My secret option. And I had briefly checked out on that option too.
So I don’t even remember if he asked me this next question before or after the previous paragraphs, but he said it in a strange, roundabout way. Instead of asking whether I had ever had (or currently had) suicidal thoughts or asking me directly whether I wanted to kill myself, he posed the question in the conditional, subjunctive form, like this:
“If I were to ask you whether you wanted to kill yourself, what would you then say to me?”.
Now that’s a strange way of asking somebody something, isn’t it? Is this some kind of pyschiatrists’ trick? Since I’m a rather fond of learning languages, I’ve since learned that this is called “the subjunctive mood”. Right. Looking back on it now, yes, it’s rather clever now that I think about it. All of a sudden this became a hypothetical scenario. Yes hypothetically I might want to kill myself in the future if the situation got worse. And then there was an awkwardly long pause on my behalf. Too long. Like nearly this long:
He had caught me off guard. Dammit! Yes I felt about as guilty as Jan Ullrich when asked about doping. But I didn’t smile or laugh because it wasn’t funny. Nothing was. “It’s too soon”, I remember thinking. “I’m not that suicidal. Not right now. Not yet. I’m not ready to do it yet. I’m only partially suicidal.”
Lots of things were going through my mind, but I still hadn’t answered yet! I’m not one to tell lies. Should I answer “maybe”? “Not right now”? “Sometimes”? None of these are good answers. I realise now that when you’re in this kind of predicament, anything other than a straight up ‘no’ is not the right answer. In the end I decided upon saying “how can I answer that question?”. I couldn’t think of what else to say. But the alternative was to sit there and say nothing for even longer. My lame response was a partial admission of my suicidal tendencies.
It was around this point in the conversation that he said “we can keep you here as an involuntary patient” and “I don’t take this decision lightly” (or whatever way he said it). I was astonished. “You want to put a suicidally depressed patient into a more depressing environment?!”, I remarked.
I felt like a tiny insect who had flown unwittingly into the outer perimeter of a very large spiderweb. The web had been spun well before I had entered the room that day. And the juicy big orb spider was coming to get me. It was a trap and suddenly I was stuck! Fuck!
You see, up until then, I had assumed that if I voluntarily walked into one of these centres, that I could voluntarily walk straight out again. Wrong!
I honestly wish I had a fucking tape recorder with me, but I didn’t have one so apologies if this next section isn’t verbatim and/or with the correct sequence of events. He looked me right in the eye (or I looked him right in the eye if you prefer) and he said: “The state wants to keep you alive” (or the equivalent, the only words I really remember were ‘state’, ‘you’ and ‘alive’). Or maybe he said “The state has a duty to keep you alive”, or something else very much like that — sorry, I just I don’t bloody remember.
“The risk to you is less in here than out there” the man said. To which I promptly replied: “but you haven’t seen my home environment, so how can you make that judgement? YOU don’t know!“. Then he repeated himself and I repeated myself. A few times actually. I was getting anxious. And then I said “well we’re just going ’round in circles”. The nurse nodded in agreement. The meeting was basically over at that point. There was to be no further discussion or compromise.
I had been classified as either a “mentally ill patient” or a “mentally disordered patient” (I’m still not sure which one). Basically, I was sick. How had I let things get this far? I don’t know. Depression is the disease of the 21st century; it wears an invisibility cloak and it can creep up behind you while you least expect it. Somewhere along the line, I had been gradually losing hope about my future.
By now it was dawning on me that there was not going to be an exit from here any time soon. Whether I signed that silly admission form or not, they were not going to release me back into the big bad world for a while. That was it. I was to be admitted as an involuntary patient at a psychiatric hospital ward.
They’ll be callin’ in the morning
They’ll be hanging on the phone
They’ll be waitin’ for an answer
But you know nobody’s home
And when the bells stop ringing
It was nobody’s fault but your ownAxl Rose, Coma GNR.
What we do with our world
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