I've had enough of you. Enough nothing. I guess at what I want, and I always get it all. And it always changes. Right before the smile feels okay. Genuine, I guess people call it. A ‘genuine smile’. Well, if some smiles are fake, and if fake things that live long enough can be considered real, why is the void so scary? A bunch of crossed wires, a trillion chances all adding up to a slave. Or a mother. Or a slave that's a mother. I guess I don't care anymore. I guess, I guess. And it's so hard to be real. It's wrong to, actually. But so what? There's no greater enemy than the self, and I'd love to kill him but he doesn't identify recognizably. As human. Or loved. Love was always such a great ending. A shade, a wish, a weapon. No point in explanations. They're endless and life is finite. It's not like truth has ever been generally accepted. You have to tell yourself to believe in garbage or the garbage will consume you. And I don't believe in it. I won't abide it. And you just don't really get it.
