In the living room of a lunatic

In the living room of a lunatic,
he's an old friend of mine.
Sleeping on his couch,
waiting for a sign.

As I wake, I'm never shocked at what I see.
Whether a pothead, a reckless child, or a tease.

The lunatic abuses, and blood indeed does fall, but nobody can tell, the carpets already red.

There's nowhere else to go,
no one else to see,
besides, over time, the lunatic has become part of me.