I am useless. A pathetic ******, that talks a lot of poetic *******, but seldom ever lives up to it.
I’ve been crawling scrawling weird drawings on my dark cave mind, keeping primitive images poorly defined so, I can change their meaning anytime I like.
I am tired, too weary for this dreary twilight, counting down with the Clockwork Sphynx who thinks we all stink, so he stopped asking riddles, and started riffing while sniffing sandy breezes till he sneezes and breathes out more doubt.
This is pointless, I am just dust, not even worth enough to get me up when I’d rather just lay down and sleep. cont.