Lazy from C-Z

Time skips forward, day three, back to one, and forward march to illumination. Three bucks, constables, nothing, no one, never. For we are ever free. Free to walk, free to smile, free to love, free to loathe. Birth and its many defects, desecration, madness, frustrations, deafening. Loss, regret, we have found each other again, speaking the language of sorrows. Drink deep from that well, that we may know salvation. Spoil further the concept of we the people, we of low value, we of low standards. Tragedy begets tragedy easily. Learning curves are nightmares bound to keep us astray.  No más .  The first of salvation, once held, will give rise to hope anew. Only until then are we, in the deepest aspect of our beings, truly one as people, as a collective. Time skips time. No sense of reason or rhyme. The flow depends on the aether that is bound to us. Illumination is become us. Four twenty, no score. Five eleven, no dice. Charming. Sculpt and tumult, birds of the same feather, an ensemble

"Hold on," she said, taking my hand; "Smile your biggest smile." I would, however, tonight, of many others, is not mine to give. Told her every single thing, and she, in turn, gave me all that she could. The view, from my perspective, was breath-taking, as she occupies the space in between my eyes. But as the sun, in all its glory, undulated to the other side, we both find ourselves, hopelessly, swept away. I took the right way, she left, and still felt wrong. The days, burdened by grief, now turn to and against me, unknowingly, so I may understand, in my own way, what solace truly is, albeit the requiem for those weary and lost. In the long years, numerically undeterred, that followed, one day, I had heard that she has, somehow, settled down, somewhere, with someone, and something inside me cracked wide open, inconsolable. Sometimes, I think about her, and go about my life, asking, with no answer to tow, what it is that makes me...

It was fortuitous that what was supposed to be a minor date turned into a siesta . I took to bed at nine in the morning and had my alarm at one in the afternoon. It did nothing to me as usual. Mother had grumbled of this and that and try as I might to let these cacophonies peddle negativities in my mind, I have to endure the indignity of no solace for quite a bit more. There is not much to be had on a four-degree-weather Sunday. Sundays are for sabbaticals, and I had foregone that religious aspect in me a long time ago. Candela had informed me the day before that she is dropping by for an hour and wants to have a meal before she leaves for the holidays, but for every message she sent me is an hour I spent catching winks. But I for one am glad it happened as it did. It would be disingenuous to meet up; spend an hour prepping and rushing the commute, beso , eat, adi ó s , go home. I had my rotors all in a flux trying to balance every single minute detail of my daily activities, micromana

 I could open my mouth And chase the whole thing off Or I could close it And let it chase me away

Drip, drip. Eyes falling, tears. Drip, drip. Drip and dry. Nothing. Quieter than when conscious energy once materialised itself in its primordial form. Nothing, and then something. Nothing, nothing again. Some voice... what have I done? Some face... of whom I have never seen nor met. A silhouette. As if... in the end... was the face of my maker. Or the face of my ender. Two moons and birds chirping, one wintry night. Try as I might. For the fools out there, fools in love, delusions of grandeur, fools in life, of adventure, and fools of those who wallow in the misery of solitude. Time ticks, tick, tick, tick-tock. Sleep, and pretend myself slip sliding away. Drip, drip. Eyes falling, zetsubou .

So I felt like the biggest asshole (felt like the biggest asshole), as I ... wait anxiously for the installation of Endwalker -- and I am sure later on too in queue -- my keen optimism has dwindled down into a bouyant mess. Gone are the days where my safety lines are at all times kept intact. Bygone days. Months. Destruction of its madness cemented on my inadvertent hesitation to make things right. Because fuck it. Mow down the sexy people? I do miss the catboys and the bunnygirls, but the whataboutism over the past few months has been staggeringly triggering, and my sharp-eyed focus on work and the loss of my comfort zones has made certain that my extracurricular activities were all left by the wayside. A simple promise I gave to someone before I was left to fend for myself in the cold. But now all is done. I have finally killed rock and roll... or have I really? Eat all the grass that you want; accidents happen in the dark. December was the purported month of last chance. Technical