With all my procrastination expunged from my very soul, desire diminished to the very bare requirements unable to muster effort for the simplest of menial corporeal tasks, all hope reduced to infinitesimal proportions the time must finally be at hand. A calm settles the spirit like never before, 2 roads perceived in all probable possibility one swift the other swifter a 3rd emerges to laminate potential by diminishing ones self once more to perpetuate the lucid mare that besieges me still.
Nay be the rallying cry to concede to pestilence not of my own, condemning my struggle to the inevitable I idolize in my sullen ways. No fight left in my burdened and frail form wracked by common plague inviting the last to win against all triumph that lay stead in its way to end this envisage. Concede he screams concede an die your time has come stay true and lie.
Why bother… Pure truth is seen in many ways, the eyes of god I feel me say, pure truth untenable, realism is a great fall. Folly the priority of place the aim to forget achieved thus presenting a problem of how to return, how to care, is love just fallacy, it is untenable now. I am Untenable.
Lament, lament.