One.

This can not be good for me.

I can't do it anymore.

This whole loneliness thing.

It fucking blows.

It really wrenches the soul and burns through the body with sheer determination.

It's very, very tiring.

I've grown extremely tired of it, and I don't want to do it anymore.

It's just horrible.

The viscous cycle...

The endless disappointment.

The bland dark walls inside my head.

Every idea just bounces off and disappears into the darkness.

Like a laser pointer on a dark wall.

Like a laser pointer on a dark wall.

Oh, the angst. The agony.

It begs to escape. For my soul to explode, to burst into flames.

To burn out, to disappear into smoke.

Nothing else matters, it never has.

The only thing that put some light on the situation felt like a dying candle for a while,

and then put itself out.

Out of misery, out of association with the never ending horribleness that is yours truly.

Like it always has, like it always does.

But I don't want to label everything and put it in the same box.

That was why I never wanted to do this to begin with, to do things, to begin with.

They just end up as useless classifications. Each, and every time.

Each and every time. Blue on blue, heartache on heartache. Each and every time.

It's like a small box, dying to explode. Burst into an explosion filled with paper.

Oh, the growing pains of yours truly.

Why does we always end up at square one?