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It's so sexual - the way it moves me. I've become this little pile of shit that doesn't even steam when it's cold. No energy to spare -

nah, none at all.

Photographs can't even pierce this invisible memory, this invisible reflection of self. It's all fucking gone.

It started to make sense for a short while, and then it finally happened. Self doubt riddled with confirmation that no doubt could possibly exist - and yet I found a way to even let that go.

Now I just sleep - drugged, of course, to the point that only the rapid flushing of chemicals will jolt me awake long enough to replenish the empty reserves to sleep further.

Maybe I can sleep myself into consciousness (is that even possible?)

God she makes me want to hurt everything around me to break out of this state of false sleep; to bring myself to something that might even carry with it a shade of familiarity.

It's like a body decomposed and unleashed its filth into the soil, creating the perfect home for any self respecting man to bury himself. Now I want out but I find myself becoming this diseased, wretched life - or is it becoming me? Regardless, it ain't me that wants to hurt you~

Oh well, perhaps I'll lay down and create a fantasy where this actually makes sense; where I won't wake up tomorrow and repeat this day again -

and again -

and again.