Raskolnikov

Tell me, am I insane? Is it thoughts of you, drive me insane?
I wonder if I can find my way back from this empty plain, from scattered thoughts of an empty crime.
All I've got are memories of that day, busy city streets, sitting in a hovel, drunks outside and a voice in the air. A cold dark staircase in a cold edifice with no one there: that window.
A cry, her heart thuds against the pane; I'm walking guilt, and I have no face. I'm glazed.
I've been walking for weeks, in these city streets, dreaming of stepping over this time and the sense of right that hangs in the air; but isolation enfolds around my soul, waiting to be saved by you, although I don't want to see you, I can't escape from you. These thoughts of you.
And I wonder if I am living life; a tainted heart comes to save my life like a flood of light.
But redemption is hard to accept when motivated by an ego that won't let go, doesn't want to disappear and wants to live in new morality.
But I'm not extraordinary, I'm ordinary.
So tell me, am I insane? Is it thoughts of you that drive me insane?