injected in your brain at birth was an abstract parasite telling you what to need. as you keep listening you disregard the disappointment you feel because, just like you confided in me, an explicit connection would require giving up what is too much for you.
fraught of white lies, your life has grown blacker. with the static momentum of your fine point pen as the idea of me issues in to your screensaver train of thought your mind floods itself with abrupt corners and never a dead end to let you stare long enough to judge it to a pulp.
as an attempt to disclaim the preceding--as always, a moment too late--i must add... these are bastard thoughts and you own half of them. from your self prescribed omniscient libido, you have been jaded by your own system. also, i think you're fun to play with because i can predict you.
