Sometimes is not enough. Someday never has been. I’m alone with the prospect of tonight, cold and covered in the frozen monotony of another stifled day, drowning everything telling me absolutely nothing. I’m cold and I’m exhausted from the mental energy it takes to remember what makes this easier. I’m angry from the compulsion to dedicate everything, or to appreciate every petal of every flower when sometimes it’s just filthy, and sometimes people are really stupid. Sometimes my hobbies are fruitless, my ideas have no point, and it’s really obvious. There are a lot of times when my thoughts DON’T rhyme. Sometimes I just plain want it to be easy. And sometimes isn’t enough. This is insatiable. I am insatiable. What I want doesn’t exist. What I am doesn’t exist anywhere else but in me. And yeah, that’s a good thing, a great thing, even, but a lot of times I just kind of want my own hug from my own self, and you have NO idea how hard that is to manufacture, or how underwhelming the story is when you yourself wrote the ending. I am working to stay sane, and once I am, I lust for crazy because at least in crazy I can be crazy. I’m so alone. So alone tonight, and I can’t stand that at all, no, not naturally.