There is no evidence.
Only expectation's corpses in the mortuary of our discontent.
No life.
Just time as it scrapes that empty chalkboard.
Nothing to write there.
Outlines in old dust.
Shadows in the darkness.
Hardly there.
Celebrating this loneliness with one more beer.
It's a party that never ends.
I have hope.
That's my problem.
I need to get rid of it.
To be in such despair again as I was then.
That blood was white in comparison.
And dying was the only thing that made sense.