[ Why I am at the singer’s door? I just had this sudden urge to visit it, somehow. It’s weird - it’s like I have this feeling on my throat, just… dry and dead, every time I pass by here. So, I don’t believe in ghosts or any of this crap, that’s bullshit. But… I don’t know, nobody is watching it, right? Just a dumbass starring at a door, that’s it. And even if ghosts exist, they can read minds, right? Whatever. Let’s just… talk.
I hated you. I hated you so much, singer. No one ever supported me, I was abandoned all the time. Nobody wanted to be friends with “the blue-haired weirdo” and my parents… well, what can I say? Abandoned me too. But you, singer. You? Never. You had everything in your hand.
One day, in seventh grade, I think… Nobody noticed me at all. Until one day, I broke my own arm on purpose, so I could get at least a bit of attention from everyone. And I got 18 cards, that I keep under my bed until this very day.
But still… I think it was not hatred I felt for you, but yes, jealously. I wanted to be like you, but in the end, all turned into hate when you did that murder. I understand your point of view, you were scared, but still. I would be okay if you just murdered someone and confessed, but you lied.
But even though. My respect for you, which was… a lot, just went all away at the trial. I respected you a lot, singer. You were my inspiration, and I just felt so betrayed.
But in the end, does it matter? Does it matter that I feel this way? I… honestly don’t know.
Sigh. I probably look like a stupid fuck starring at a door, just thinking… Whatever. I’ll just leave. ]