I sit in distinguishment, shadows amongst shadows that gather aloud To pitch into the collective void. Our equal shroud.. I want to stop, I do not want to do this anymore but she won't let me. The silent whispers that make my hands ache..I see what she makes me see. Which is more insane for ourselves to accept as the truth we've lied? The man who pitches forever in the void, or the one who never even tried?
