Money.

Waking up at five, your van is down stairs, honking at six thirty, telling you to come downstairs. You've only slept two and a half hours. You can't sleep on the van, 'cause the ride is too bumpy. You look outside your window, you see the sun trying to rise. These dark winter clouds suppress the yellow ball's path. The sky is pink, perhaps its the mixing of yellow and grey, streaks of grey clouds, it's divine.

It is setting, when you get home. It's greyer than ever, it's not pretty, not one bit. It's cold and the place you call home, isn't really anything but an empty vessel. It's where people don't want you, where people are sitting and counting the amount of money they've spent on you. It's where people are trying to hide the truth from others - she is dumb,we paid extra to get her in. It's a flowery, gorgeous facade; if you enter, you'll see the real monsters that lurk behind it.
Bitter cold people, bitter cold monsters.

You cry, 'cause she takes your side.
You cry, 'cause you can't give an alternate noun to them, but ass holes.

You wail the salt, you think of him. Did you feel what I felt - strange bond, you used to call?
...
It is another day tomorrow, isn't it? Or there is connectivity?

Go away, I am ungrateful.

You don't want to live under the pressure of being a burden, you don't want to live when all they are doing is counting the amount spent.