• I lay upon the clutter; the tangled-up sheets, contemplating on my dreams- or at least what I want them to be. I lack incentive, motivation, care; my creativity cowering beneath their stares. Logic is the illusion and I function on fact; dysfunction the epitome of my past. A solid layout paves the road to my future- and a tributary my only escape; only a cowards run away. So I wear a mask to hide the truth, and step in time in their shoes; they're a bit too big but I wear them well. You're played like fools and I'm unwell. The longer I pretend the harder it becomes, and death doesn't seem as scary as it was once before, So I'm not unstable -- just a bit too aware, and scared that maybe everything will end in this Hell.

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