Thrice.

It used to be so easy. Now this fucking mess we're in -- what can I do?
Walking through the city at night. Mindless, more or less. Not a care in the world. The winter leaves blanket all my doubts. All the glimmering, neon lights on glistening streets gather in the dark. There's a stilted stillness growing in my heart. Something is not at ease. It's tied to a brick with cement in it's shoes, sinking down. Down. Down. A landslide slowly rushing to the sea.

If you could only give me time to ease my spinning head, I'm sure I could if I would only try. Try. Try. I'm burying secrets in the soil, fed by all the reckless shit you fed me. All our stories we could have told are unwinding. I am the soil left unsettled by all these stories you leave behind. There's no beginning with us now; only ends. All our paintings, our beautiful paintings of sunsets on the ocean, they're burning. And you. You're burning down each bridge I wish to cross. Burn, burn. Burn.