You’re not as shrewd as you once wished, not as daring as you used to be. Your posture and composure is something that seems to stop dead in your wake. And brawn has never been your virtue, your strength has been quelled by the rage. A sad existence, no compromises, no phoenix from the flame on your grave. The hand was dealt you'll never feel the same. You try to persuade yourself to believe it, try to gain that last shred of self-respect. You washed your hands with the blood of your loved ones, a never ending fucking wreck. Why can't this grass ever be greener? Why won't the darkness swallow the night? Why am I so fucking divided? There's no difference to what's wrong and right.
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