An Act is done. The waters have risen. Six months have passed.

The blood now flows. Safety is assured. There will be no new life.

Music plays. A pimple is burst. A boy is missed.

I will never win an argument. The shield of silence is unbeatable.

Inconsistency. Triviality.
Lies, them all.

Objectivity, as an approach is lost.
Head-heart. Heart-head.
My socks get wet. Again.

Happiness is merely a myth we’ve all been fed. Except if you’re rich.
Money can buy happiness.

My back is being most painful.
My face is most fertile for all forms of acne (and other things that are composed of white and red sticky substances).
My hair refuses to sit still.
My eyes refuse to work.
My tongue isn’t being used enough.
I whine too much.

Thank the good lord, my well is back.