I wish everything was finished, ending and everyone else over and dead with. Broken, ruined, desperate mess of society. We won't be woken, ruling the rest of it mindlessly, at least not me. I'm sick. Coughing up bloody guts and misery. In an attic, scoffing up this muddy rut and scenery. I'm not allergic to nuts, but I'll eat them anyway, and I'll probably die. At least I can try. My mouth will be dry. I'm too shy for an ally and all who would comply to be by my side is a lone sting in one eye where I can't help but cry. I won't mourn the loss of my future. Or yours or his or hers or ours or theirs. We were lost from the start and I despaired for that before I met you. I made my peace and will make it everyday for the strangers who cross paths and wonder. I'll try to walk on, and not talk and ruin you. Rather as I make my final fall I shall grieve instead a different cost. A loss loose fitting around pessimism. It is wound instead around a self loathing ego, demanding hugs from everyone, while it kicks me to the floor. The sacrifice who I will pine for will be hope. Without it I'll have nothing more. Where everything starts and ends. I will despair for the spark that kept up. The one that has left.