SO the whys are asked. Looking around, only the furniture and cold air answers me. Their language I speak not so an answer I'm still seeking width. A parallel momentum of emotions destined for corruption of one's self. All without answers because depression enjoys what's gradually to completion. I'm curious knowing the ongoing of the lives of others. To judge or to relate, or both. To convince on the other hand, is difficult. Yet her Queen knows their deeds and the art of manipulation to her desires. What is it of the many of us desiring the greater amount attention. It's harmful, with tears I say this. That rhythmic heart beat, not disturbed, calm as it walks gently in it's sorrowful world. I need a companion, nothing more, who would walk me through this life, sharing the same ideology of this insane ground. A secret understanding through secret glaces; eye to eye. It's sad. I cry. Maybe, nothing more, maybe, something less. They say the Africans killed an elephant, but ego kills joy, or rather it's built centered upon it. It isn't much I'm asking for, I repeat myself like a sound-sane broken record. It's just the minimal of the maximum I can receive which is, a little of everything that is given times the amount that has been said would be deducted from the start. In total, completion of knowing little, yet gaining much. This is depression of it's average taken on the mental toll. Joy, fill me up.
