I can't tell if I mean it quite the way it's written, 'cause I wrote it all down drunk.
Where the letters string together, there's hardly anything left to decipher, just a poorly drawn map on a page full of secretly-heartfelt suggestions on a meaningless journey to clear one's own. What isn't clean will never be as clear as the decision to ignore the filth, caked on from years of avoiding my own guilt over avoiding myself... And regressing myself, to come back to the mindset I let myself drown in with disappointment - now, what was too many years ago. I ain't never been a shining example of good faith, nohow.


A good heart will get you anywhere, a good hearted-woman will make you bleed. Like the days long-gone, you won't miss anything. Not the sound of the voice trembling in the cold, you lace your fingers into the strands that trace the outer-most corners of such a stern face; I know you're guilty of watching me sleeping. Wondering why in the hell any chosen path could take you somewhere so far out of bounds. I know you're just as sorry as I've ever been, or as we ever could be. And you're stories quit matching up after playing telephone for another hour with no one seeming to wonder why a body of such stature can't even be trusted. Why without reason and in clean working-order, a defined lack of treason could make any body possessing sanity wonder why the hell any body would bother standing at the edge of the rye.