Ive made it months, even years in solitudes embrace, and Nothing has shown me what I cannot create. Stuck on this compendium of mortality, a line without a flaw. I can never bring the life back to his withered breast. Dead at 18 years, now my heads a fucking mess. Everyone is waiting for the end of the line, immutable truth. There is nothing that can take what is dead. There is nothing that can take what is dead and make it green. There is nothing that can take what is dead and convince it to grow. Vessel is deserted. Capillaries dry. The world soldiers onward. The line is absolute. Dirt holds no sway over me.
dead, line, nothing, compendium, capillary