Fell in love with the girl.

Everything is falling apart, but it all feels so right; everything is falling into the rights spaces.

No money, unfulfilled sickness, and yet the pinky stays true.

The dirty carpet and the sea of fingerprints has left me unphased.

The sweat inducing thumb of the man from across the sea has yet to shake me.

The throb that binds the columns together has caused each of the two globes to trick me, and yet, life still buzzes.

Everything is green. Everything I touch is green. The top is green and plummets into red.

Encased in natural bends and stretches, shrouded in future incantations, invocations, able now to tell the future.

Visions of the future come by way of odors wrought with devastations from the past. Learning to listen to guts, empty and sad, lonesome and stressed, are still viable.

There is no soul.

666 bands of silver restrict the blood and the ability to impress upon others the feeling of having any conceivable notion of anything or anyone.

Drifting through the faux, one with the drag and the longest con of all: everything is okay.