People say that I'm enchanted and deserving. I am a tad insecure. They come by after years of dissonance to play prayer on a lost consonance. This unison of a depraved boy, or a talking poet. Shining through the undersoul of a lost half. The self of a loud sun. Alien to money. Riding a fume that was long begotten, causing storms in the compass I've got. My heart.
I quit playing with fortune, living the rest of my life is no burden. Comfortably summed up in the touch of God.