For a smear of silence is only but a deafening one. If there was a sort of lesson I have ever learnt is to take the solace out of darkest indigo, that is if there's ever a kind. Be a touch of sardonic pink — the tinge that hinges to grow out in the skies but are taken as a merely the complimentary blue, a bane of its own. The harvest reach to my gun has a back up to my spine; my pure incomprehension to my answers I already knew from the start.
The irony is that I knew even before the start. Safest haven, pain, perhaps the buried disparity of what's left thereof will find its way back from I left off, blindsided - deaf - but never dead. It always, albeit find its way back. What more was in that lie in this world of no truth - It was for mine to harness with its tables turned. The only thing I dare to trust enough is the fact that I don't believe in it, no tad longer.
They looked at me and asked me why I looked so cold. And I myself wondered why — even Atlas will atlas, take the blame of the world even for his unimpeachable days.
I listened to it 44 times and it's still a lie. It will still stay goddamn intangible, never decipherable and eventually; ungood, or enough, nothing; but everything
.
.
.
Never ever trust the blue. Don't remain to depths of your vehemence – you don't trust yourself. You're dead to them even in your pseudo self.
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