The story I've been telling is becoming less close to the chest.
Curious nature is that of a private man openly speaking tragedy.
Delivered with an uncomfortable smirk, because humility is foreign.
At this time, respectively.
It began with short sentences. Small worked because it was never enough to give insight into
the whole picture. Of course there was source material. Coincidences occasionally, but my sources were
always kept hidden. My skeletons, some would say.
Then the sentences became longer, if not, the paragraphs would.
Every now and then a hand cramp would delay the process, but
the mind kept going. What else did it have to do, but think?
But back to misplacing a humble way.
As soon as you state that you are,
you have become a contradiction,
a liar,
a cheat,
a thief,
the **** of the Earth.
But what do I know?
I'm only trying to be humble.