Reality is a cruel
son of a bitch.
She strikes when the water's warm,
while a laugh is still being born,
long before the silence can form.
There is no meat
left on these bones.
No blood in these veins.
There is no hope
left in this heart.
It died and decayed,
left only a stain.
It reminds me how far I came.
I don't gamble like I used to.
I'm not brave like that anymore.
Now it's about adaptation,
and conservation and keeping it all alive.
Because memory plays a funny game.
She's selective and fickle
And love,
is just fucking lame.
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