It's a.
Cold hard.
World out there.
Kiddies.

Stay safe won't you.
Stay sane must you.
Stay normal lest you stand out.

And become.
Destroyed.

Oh kiddies.
I know.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Hard as an isolated diamond.

Looking for my rough.

And it's always a sob story they're singing.
Always a love song they're writing.

And there's no better torch song than an epitath.

Gone.
Too.
Soon

This stability of mine.
Is depressing
The doldrums of routine.
They keep me unfilled.

And,
oh I long.
For adventure that ends in ruin.

And,
oh I long.
For Dionysian ecstasy.

But.
That all lead to squander and squalor.
To trauma and decay.
That all lead to death.
Minutes away from the reaper.

So.
I keep at the Apollonian ordering of chaos and revel in the boredom of banal.
And I'm less inspired.

But well dressed.
But well fed.
But always high.

Maybe just maybe at the end of the dredgery I'll feel fullfilled.
Like all of this mattered.

But I'm a husk of an interesting person.
And the tumult of chaos and drifting.

Giving up.

Still natters at my mind.
Like my unfinished books.
Like my drug induced amnesia.

It all gets forgotten in my mundane days.
My necessity.

Depressed.

I'm always depressed and punishing myself for not being well adjusted.
And, I'm always hungry and overthinking.

This oh so familiar ennui.
My isolation.
My grand delusions.
Are really just the most effective time waster I know.

This is all just some strange daze.
Some kinda washed out broken device I can't fix.

My misanthropy has made me give up as all I long for.

Is.
Sweet.
Release.