O what have I done? I never get enough, I cannot resist you. What do I fear? What is fear? I do not care of you and your services. My needs are of needs.
The pain was there, but not the cushioned slap of trueness and damp places.
Everything that meant something has only been a small wooden box. Time is made of paper. There was a loud grinding pulse released in amplified bursts when least expected. The rest is as it was. It is very tired outside.
Why do these colors continue to scream at me? No commands or facts, just incessant, sharp spikes of noise. Tie it down, drench it in water and lay it to rest.
There are no new reasons. Sleeping soundly as the steel only grows colder and deteriorates further. The smell of rust and perfume radiates from my core.
I have grown weary of this. I have overdosed on stupid little white pieces of chalk.
