(no subject)
These past 122 hours: a new year. Cliché, cliché. A drink for the Queen; a look for the scene. Her lapse esoteric and uncertainty floods the décor. I guess it's alright to detach. Don't we need it? The disease that cures us. You stop slipping, do I want to hold on? Ideal demeanor begets lies and pleasing insecurity. Hidden meaning? The plight of nights, the seed of consumption, the wrecker of your soul. It is what you want, what without the personal nonsense; indeed you are wrong. How do they make the armor shine? My rusty plate, is that enough? Perhaps the oxidation is what we need to refract it all. Cope with perfect; it's as bad as it's going to get. Consistency never lasts, you know? Without the whole, the best is poor. Comparison to know the truth. H.M. saw it, why can't you? Thither we dine, the vinegar to wine. Words we detest. Worlds to us beset. It's the best we're going to get.