I couldn’t think of anything.
Where are they?
Scattering in the wind,
Scattering in the wind, scampering underneath my skin?
I had a perfect machine of one hundred dreams,
but one blank tore it at its invisible seams.
My words are unappealing.
Nobody will be feeling
Nobody will be feeling anything.
Nothing is free-flowing.
Nothing is easygoing,
Nothing is easygoing, at least.
Draft one sucks.
Draft one sucks. Draft two sucks.
Draft one sucks. Draft two sucks. Draft three doesn’t exist.
Incomplete brains rain silently.
The story never ends;
the story was never alive.