A simple cache of empty poetic sentances, arranged artfully.

Oh, but I am a slave to my own eternal mediocrity, try to fail and fail to try to see where good intensions lie. Why a shooting star falls short, revealing unknow the distance of its course. tales and debris. Or what we could only see, is only what we make and the drastic measures tha we take, to ends of luxury, rich with comfort, filled with this and that, of sorts. Things to be regretted. Or, all we are and ever, will be, won't be, could and only, should be lonely in a world of placeless pity on those so wholly undeserving, where we become, over and over, not what we're meat, but the measly half of what could be better spent.