Waste, waking up again.
Time, never to cease.
Decline of my own being.
Drawn out like a bohemian opera.
Dancing in the minds of demons.
Vicariously hangin on my own noose.
Teetering on the edge of this old and rickety chair.
Awaiting the fall.
The sicking snap of bone, the calming numbness of oncoming death.
These are the things they feed me.
Regergatate.
Not a memorie of what it was like before.
Before the sound of lies reached my ears.
Before my eyes saw the evil and sickness of a world twisted and deformed.
Never a chance for innocints.
Never free from my own darkend thoughts.
I.R.M 01/31/07
