A mind left to its vices is fragile and fickle, mingling at the crossroads of chaos and confusion. It reflects the ideation of anarchy but a lack of spirit.
The direction is a lost plot; the signs gray -- stories of ruin plague such a mind. To find a heart is to sabotage it, and to flare up is to go berserk.
High points are numerous, and they are mostly misleading. With beliefs in a conflict, there is a deep-seated fear. In lethargy, one swims.
The breath locked in an embrace around the lungs never leaves. The reserved is damned with angst; the social curses his luck.
Former perpetually breaks only to rearrange. Latter pitches to be self-destructive.