I will loathe the very core of my existence, upon weariness, if I explain about myself more than three times--to others or to myself. I explained more than three hundred times today, to her; I am soaked in a sewage load for years, I feel; my brain corrugated from excrement smear, I feel; silence shall dictate me for another thousand years, I feel; treason I committed to the fleeting beauty of my words, I feel; shrunken and exhausted, I feel.

Time and age make my life all the more a farce to the already underlying absurdity it carries. Only doesn't the farce bring a laugh with merriment, but a faint smile of moroseness. Quantifying insults my vagueness. Solidity shall reign but in the land of ideality, for my reality ostracised it.