It was getting weird. And strange as it may seem, you were still here. Relatively close and somehow pretty far off. And I’m feeling left out although if i were to write a script, I too may have written that bitch out. With little said a lot was spoken with a closed mouth and it was so much worse when I’d figured the whole thing out. You might think it would have come easier beyond the pain of shadowed doubt, despite a spreading sickness I couldn’t quite feel. Could barely describe, let alone heal.
And so it appears, from the past I should steer clear to give an anxious mind a break. To sever a string of strung-out mistakes, a meaningless novel I forgot to recreate, forever tempting fate– in a lament to the fucking fake.