I wear a patch.
As to properly hold myself back from releasing into an uncertain emotional breakthrough.
I am actually still nervous, and always there are subtle signs of warnings, as if one planted before a cliff of negative uncertainty, but yet, certainly one of constricted breathing and fatalism, overriding my somnolent, drugged astral atmosphere, like the blue screen of death.
Oh the god of murdor, he is fatal in his judgement, yet so is death. Like a double-edged weapon. Quite sharp - not dense really.
While they still think this sullenness I resort into is my constant resentment, I am not actually there, but they are happy to know I am atleast somewhere miserable, so they can safely dish out their hungry ego, that for a moment of need for satisfaction, becomes relentless, and surprising as it may seem, I come to admit I was one of them as well, just a while ago, but a long while ago.
Now I am supposedly this saviour of, atleast mine self. Like a wielder of two exotic-looking swords, that shine brightly in it's heroic flavour. That is meant for heroic proportions as well.
But I'm more of an anti-hero.
I just seem quite nice, as if I -'never'ad'- resided in the darkness that dwells within any man and woman, which unfortunately(?), I have been residing in for almost my entire life.
How can they see such good in me when I am wearing an utterly pitch-black thrilling shadow?
Are they trying to coax the coaxer?
If it could affect me, there's the smallest possibility of being inflicted the good old gash of the pig-sticker?
Perhaps making me ill again?
Can the seemingly indomitable be dominated through certain patterns of hardcore flattery if but my crack is left out even just a little to peek at the outside voyeur beyond the restricted underworld of pantaloons?
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