i’m trying to make every word a poem, but it’s not working; sometimes spells cannot inflate the value of what’s really ruin (surrounding). the path of least resistance gests a bum rap—i wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone; why should i be alone in betraying myself? every time i set out to entrance i traumatize, and vice versa. intents are subverted not only when intents are perverted—i missed the lesson on the system and mission. through frosted ponds not even narcissus could decipher a purpose. everything revolves around when i’ll be in "the city," as though i was nowhere before: this brand of invisibility is particularly hard to take, and i’d kill for another script or elixir. i didn’t blend well into the singles mixer, i wandered off and ended alone, where i was just as well, no longer ashamed about my body, its design and designed flaws. i could feel the clash and friction, even though a treeless forest of distance—there was much sound and the electronic pines clicked through an image: you grew rougher and i waned smoother, but we were both eroded. from a crisis of faith i fell as flat as a left-behind soda. i was the only one who had to move through walls that did not appreciate my wave—gave no reception.