the noticeably noted dissatisfaction on the stain that you call a life, suddenly reeking chaos on the distant distractions that have gently untied themselves from any connection to you and your net, doesn't work and the network which you have used as an umbrella is slowly relishing in the certain circumstance of all that is pretty ugly. to get control on your alt, has been deleted and you are no longer in touch with the technologies. the high you are on, taking you much further than cloud 9, 10, and 11. the conversations, flat lining and the meaning and translation all lost beside you because you are too lazy, too self aware to actually pay any attention to the third party of capabilities, facing the facts, but the facts do not compute, they have nothing in correlation to the substance you choose to abuse, the substance being life. your stain of a life. that you, like an oxymoron, don't use and misuse all at the same time with undoubtedly melancholy shuffle that has you going everywhere and nowhere, because you are stuck, a standstill, and we will no longer be your cheerleaders. all the possibilities, disappearing, nothing saved. the times all wasted, all gone away, no next times, no this times, nothing but the yestertimes that you have come waft in their comfort.