what dreams i've spun in the corners of my life. are not for you to decide.

even if. even if they are none.

what moments beseeech my self-pitying sympathy. i shall address them with a coronoer's intellect. that they are dead. and my mission is only to determine how.

what gods have feted these steps upon which now we stand. it's not for me to determine the architecture. only the slope of their decent.

and i will. if you give me enough time.

i will find the words to ressurect what sinks in the soul as it is fascitistically occupied.

by those soldiers of malcontent. by those amries of question as they invade the quiet villages which lseep sheltered in.

tall fields of grass that seem to promise peace against the the world that insists.

gentle clouds that amble selfless across skies that never had any storm in their hearts. until. until you arrived.

and now we are, stuck between the notion of ourselves and the prospect of us. helplessly trying to discren the difference. unsure there is one. or how it coudl matter if there was one.

you can always leave. and never worry. so long as you return. who you were. or something like.

you can always lave. and still you'll reamins who you were when last you departed.

because that is how i must feel. because that is how the iceberg melts. especially when the sea is so warm..

i can't undo. only try to want what i was given. as little as it was.