I'm still searching for the point where this wave's own weight became so great she crashed and rolled back, I know the end can't be assessed as of itself, but desperate eyes see no shame in seeking what they lack. Born a blank canvas, dying a mess, a maze of twisted nerves beneath rotting flesh. The miss-firing synapses within my brain as ill-tempered blood aches to burst from my veins. Self-awareness seems to be the blackest curse. I'm pressed to find an affliction that's worse, than feeling rotten within your own skin, when we're too far gone, to feel pure again. I give. Lies, lies, lies. Choked on self-pity, I've cut all my ties. Heart and a conscience that won't let me survive, hanging my head begging for my last rights.