Perspectively, this is the way it seems: the art imitates the life that breeds it, then fuses the muse where it keeps with the most effective abuses. There is only so many ways to get to a recluse, or is it reclusive? The home and I, or to which I am in - either is the entire situation and it's origin. Anyway, everything has been run through so many times the comforts of routine will produce my own undoing. On guard with tired arms, defense with shorter breathes, less wasted steps. Exhausted, but attention deficits have broken through the mind control, reclaiming the destination. Focal points reset, plural, no goals obtained or objectives met. The struggle is god damned maintenance. The paint has been dry for ages, but still I stare at walls noting discoloration. The fade explains I have stayed beyond the restoration. But there's symbiotic relations with the Creator's non human creations to consider. The prey complacent, predator adjacent. Not anxious, though expecting drastic changes. Spectacular and disastrous, it is a survival arrangement with a value supply running away and no one chasing it. Meaning one of these times...
One will be facing the end, reflectivity increased...
One with sorrow to replace in those who found influence in the same ways that have me feeling I've wasted the meaning of life, universally... 
With no argument to make with certainty...
Can only take the heat if set to a lower degree...
I'd piss on fire as the system is burning, to increase combustibility. Until it agrees to honor my pledged allegiance to the land of the...
© Alien.S