I got irremediably lost in metal. In leather. In cotton. In ink. In this mad search for myself.
I am clothed yet the fabric seems to wear me. Wear me in. Wear me out.
it reaches in my pockets and pays for our lifestyle.
For the miracles of these hate couture.

I feel abducted somehow from any purpose. From any plan.
In my cruelest nights, the wish for some sort of plan is always there.
Theres winning to be done by those who have plans.
But not for you and me.

Nights. Cruel as the cold wind. Dead as the leaves on which I tread on my way home. Contemplating. Contemplating meanings. Or lost chances. I always take my chances. A savage within a world that despises the unknown. The unsecure. Half lives. Half selves. I try to be whole within the gaping chaos. I used to love chaos. But on nights like this...

I cheated life and always got things my way. But the world does not have a blind eye towards such things.
So punishment comes. It does not crush me. But it does worse to my hopes. To my expectations.
The mad marathon of my existence continues. Butterflies in my stomach are going to sleep. Refusing to die they slumber for something else.