Thrills to pills to the body stills, we all will run dry. No dramatic end or cosmic bend, just a speck of dirt on Earth's shallow sigh.

Pencil to pen to stencil to end, carbon copies of an ideal. No man made normality or financial fatality, can mar what you feel.

Skin in linen so infringed in, does the future hold you so? Yes peers and stately fears can bring us to stow.

I know none of which I speak but a subtle weak week. A week far 60 years from now which you reflect how you lived your life without love to be found. And your hand will close and your muscles relax but with a stiffened heart and a metal back you'll whisper to the likes of me. And only drywall will see the cracks and only your logic or sore success will breathe.