My body, holds steadfast to strong winds. It bares the marks of eighteen years. Between good, the bad, myself. I contradict my own existence with the lack of will. That my own deterioration of self is stitched together by the shaking hands of a man who doesn't know what to do next. As the pieces slowly fall. "It's fine," I say. "It's fine," that after every moment I lose a little more of myself. "At least I haven't gone this far yet." pointing deeper into the well, to be honest, who am I to judge the depth in the well of depravity when I wash my face in its waters. I have no time for eating, sleeping, I only drink from the well. In the end. it's all I need and all I want.