Memories Are Made Of Shit

A lifetime of butterflies and nostalgia from events that are idealized in comparison to what sucks in the now.

The sludge of today, becomes the "I wish it was like it used to be" in a few years.

Not that the future gets worse. I just live in a historical facade.

Every fucking day sucks - sucked - will suck.

Even if the calloused scars rest their crooked heads for just one moment - enough to allow a genuinely appreciable impression - when they awake, be it a second or a century, this too shall pass.

Any trace of warmth in a heart are certain to be extinguished and buried within the layers of repression inspired knots I could not untwist.