I had to shake this trembling off. In so I draw.
If I weren't this life, this me, would I miss this man? Nearly, I turned them all away. What is left then for this old fool?
Everything that's been thrown are all worth their fullest. But there's always a twist. Nobody knows. The fool lives its name, knowing that they are locked out there, with accomplished mission.
The stories I've come to learn stamped into the consciousness. Between now and the time they fade, something grows. We know not what it is, as of all the nows. And in small steps, we continue to draw our trembles, not knowing what else to do.
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