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Syndicate To Medicate (Something Has To In The End)

Shadows and whispers in time. Replicating every move that I've made in a lifetime of regret. Meditating from the grooves of sorrow that perhaps I should have forgotten. Tomorrow is another day to make the circumstances change in physiological demands. And what is your command?

Breathing is almost equal to the task but the pathways are empty. It's tempting to see what would have happened had we decided not to break down to a husk of a shell. Bloated from the lies I feed myself on. Whether they're mine or not doesn't matter. They're all part and parcel of the same thing I wanted to be a part of. But like some cartoon villain my plans were thwarted even if they were not evil at all. 

Antagonised arguments only exacerbate feelings. They've been left ragged and raw for years. A syndicate to medicate. I don't know where these things lie anymore. I don't know what's good for me, I just know that you'll make it worse if you had continued your way. 

The heat will kill me one of these days. They'll blame everything else but the heat will kill me. Something has to in the end.

Physiologically psychological and psychologically physiological. If you can tell the difference, you must be the specialist to beat all specialists. Tunnelling through the pieces of it all, to cling to outdated practices. To require a certain skill, to be a master of it all. I'm just left to my own bitter devices.

It requires a moment of a feeling to be retained. And then the teenaged me would write 'neurological patterns emerge like sleeping clocks'. I can't say if they ever did or not. 

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