I don't have guts to see them out: my deep seated wants, my early morning doubt. Deflated evenings. Open opportunity to the gutless wonder, the lance you put through me. Necromancer at work, slowly regressing through primordial mindsets and into mindless oblivion.
Tell me anything, I'm listening: "Fuck off, weirdo. You're unstable." Dissecting a fable. The fortune I made up is not on the table. I want to reconcile, though held by a cable. Tensile disinterest, I'll quit, if I'm able.