Waste not, want not. I cannot atone. Our homes are in the soil. Our hands are red and cold. We wait for his motion; forward, downward. Descent. Senseless. Alone. I'll never see the light of day again. The sun hangs grey and static, sinking in oppression. Waste not, want
not. The chill rests in my bones. My hands are red and cold, devoured by my own shell of selfishness. I can't stop seeing this day in my head. I can't keep watching you age; sadly, slowly feeling my own. I am complacency; vacuous, enabling. Void. Jaundice. Relentless
antipathy. I'm sorry. Siren sounds floating like feathers to fire. Abandoning autonomy. I'm just what's left of me: faultless, selfless, apologetic. There is no rest in routine; no sleep, no silence, no blessing or scourge. The sun still sets. The moon still waits. My
days still end the same. There is no rest in routine. I've tasted the body of milk and honey. Nothing has changed. The mornings grow colder. The nights grow longer. The sun still sets. The moon still waits. These days still end the same. I just want to float in your
warmth. Jovial innocence, callow and calm. Perfect lethargy, lingering onward. Blissful undoing. Drinking in winter. This is forever.