here we are approaching closer and closer towards the deadlines of our wasted lives and we have nothing to show for it except soul extortion and we pray that we may evermore dwell in expostulated successions.
I’m surprised I’m alive and survived the luck of my past that hadn’t killed me.
the cause that effected me to trade in my crazy antics (I’ve mistaken for bravery or invincibility) for mental acquisitiveness (I mistakenly thought was for personal gain)
and now there’s nothing more to complain about there’s nothing more to look back on there’s nothing more to hold onto and the most sensible thing for me to do is end it alone with the walls taunting the final destinations like a fly to the cat and somewhere outside the mares eat oats, the goldfinch pecks the dandelion heads and the motorcyclist revs up the engine with nowhere to go and dreams of riding through the Badlands at night, never-to-be-forgotten again.