Your panic attacks mean nothing. That’s what they show you, as their actions reverberate through your skull.
Your depression means nothing, as the film grain is applied to the things you call memories, everything’s fuzzy and you feel so alone.
Even though you have to share a home.
I’m not a fan of this new nature we made for life, where dopamine is abundant if you pay the right price.
I feel about 50/50 on a 1% split, and I don’t know anything that has good reactions from it.
I’m not dedicated enough to ever truly achieve, because my wires are crossed with an easy lethargic breeze.
It’s not that I’m dumb, it’s just I’m not applied, perhaps that is worse, so here’s my banshee cry.
I’ll wail, I’ll thrash, I’ll kick and scream.
I’ll be sure to feel like death while I give you ice cream, because it feels so good to help you, it feels so good to supply, it feels so good to help you, because I cannot die.
October 20th, 2018 1:39am