I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like. And right now there's a steel knife in my windpipe, I can't breathe but I still fight while I can fight. As long as the wrong feels right, it's like I'm in flight, high of a love, drunk from the hate. It's like I'm huffing in paint, and I love it more that I suffer. I suffocate and right before I'm about to drown, he resucitates me, he fucking hates me, and I love it.