Everything is dust in the wind. Surely you cannot describe it in any other fashion. Nothing lasts forever except the starry sky. Surely you cannot argue in any other point. "Walk down my esophagus staircase into my bowels of Hell". Regurgitating the feeling. And underneath these stains of time I still remain in tact and unscathed by your malicious intent to determine my fate. The currents have their say in what happens and where I go. Swiftly taken under by the rush of what was. Resurfacing is the pain I've felt for so long. Numbed by the immediate healing I receive in her presence. This isn't real. This is just an illusion; a mirage in the desert. An image projected by the mind to satisfy it's temptation. "A screen in which to project my images of sorrow, pain, and sex. Although there is no difference between the three." The final phase is nearing it's completion. The head has been cut off. It is only going to grow back harder. Is this what you wanted? Well, this is what you are getting. My re-morse code has run-on sentences. My resentment has been established through sentiment. Sentimentality gets in the way of your mental state of the union. Address these issues of the newest playboy magazine for the senile teens sqwak for rebirth on the day of death. You have failed to develop the large picture. The dark room has holes in the walls. You may now use the light room for your hard hitting, self-deployed emptiness. No one created you this way. It just happened. You can run as fast as you want and as far as you want but you can never outrun your cliche. I've been far too sympathetic and it makes me feel simply pathetic. My subtle space shuttle is scheduled for take off some time in the next life time of which I've suffered long enough to know the difference of your first and second guesses. Do not dispute me. I am no longer here. "You have knocked me off the hook." The brash fantasy of an ever fleeting, fast paced past; the ball is no longer in my court house. I haven't broken the law. The law has broken me. And her my heart. Endure the spade; the black heart; the drained. The only way through this is through it. Binocular sense of near-sightedness never grows weary of a distant relationship. One that not your scope of life can range. But your headlights can freeze on sight. One sight says to another, "I haven't seen you for days". There is no new scene for you to grab hold of. I will regurgitate. You will swallow. I will regurgitate. You will swallow. Do you see the spin cycle in process? Is your laundromat of life filled with less than half of the under achievers? Is it over for you? Digressing is a lost art. Work for something that isn't already overly strived for. You fail to sense your own identity. Sly and cunning are gunning for me. "I want a newer version. I want version I don't (point) know; Version Idon't.know. O! O! I want version pointless.0.I want version pointthegunatme.0 I want everything before I want it so I don't want it anymore." Can you give me that? I don't need your help; I've got my own problems to not care about. I take my leave; My sentimental digression.