Where is my falling star? Where is my fairy tale? Do all good things require scars? I'm so sick of finding failure, I'm lost here, in a place I thought I could call home. I've got half a mind to leave, and half a mind to feel like it will never be what I want. I'm a stranded traveler, a broken mechanic, a burning fire engine. The epitome of irony is that it hurts worst that I care at all.