To but just have a glimpse of hope, I shall be sustained in loneliness. If only but a thought. The essence of my mind, a trifling encounter, a mercy beckoning cry. At the weight of my judgment, a far-sighted nigh. And with it the loose lengthening emotions that are me. I control you, but I cannot. If I could do whatever I did I would be lost. Lost and forgotten in myself, a wintry falsification of truth. He's a thinker, dressed in fastidious black. A forever aloof embellishment, and a long lighted texan. This place is dry, this place is wet, but it shall whichever of displeasure. I am discontented, but shimmering in my countenance. As it were, though as you could tell, a dull lingering furtherance. Last Christmas was a fun discontinuation of my soul. I shan't bring myself upon susceptibility again. I thank thee that inhibits me. Upon you I give my graces to, for you give rise to my innate self. I gently kiss the weathered disposition that has become of me, become of us. Have I finally reason to move from this cold, assuming path? Yet a bitter wind of chills from the north, and all I have is knowledge of the abyss.