What is the point anyway? After all this time, my time seems to be not only spent, but wasted. Wasted as the days I spend trying to forget the lack of meaning on this cancerous line of flatness getting fake high on these also fake streamlines. Even I can't handle being bored like this anymore, even taking away my life would be too much effort and I just can't.
The drama I try to avoid is the same one that surrounds me and my thoughts. The same attitude that I quietly criticize is the one that my hormones lead me to. I run from them, from this eternal teenage doom.
THE LOVE, THE LOVE, THE LOVE.
Can't this fucking word just go away? Can't I be happy as I was sometime ago listening to all those happy horrendous ghosts play? They're still here, that old star is back. The old-new feeling come and goes and again I can't handle this eternal black. Even this writing pleasure is boring me. Even my voice, my ways disgusting me. Can't the bandmaster just look up for my guitar once? Can't your Grace pretend I fully believe in you once? Fuck it you and I are bored, we'll just keep riding on the Highway Pork.
