To do nothing but rot. In moments like these is all I want. And it's been said I am wasteful. The truth is distasteful. Neglecting reflection for sake of your fables. Living in a dream built in your head somewhere between half asleep and half dead just won't cut it. We are not so different, you and I. Similarly leading separate lives. Susceptible to the same old repetitive lies, as the ones we will hear 'til the day we die like "I'm sorry" "I love you" "It's my fault" "I didn't mean to" "I'll try harder than I used to." or "One day I'll love you more," Well I've heard the score. Love you better, love you often. More affection and more talking. More attention, more gawking. More time. You are mine, and I haven't felt the truth in that. And it is moments like these when I wonder what I am doing at all.