1558.

I resent far more
relationships than I will
ever just enjoy.

1557.

A cynic's new year.
Treading the fine line between
the real and believed.

1556.

Just more time passing
in the slow march to death that
we deem as living.

1555.

And then nothing gets
changed. Resolutions waiting
for the coming fall.

1554.

Until the night of
drunken debauchery sets
out its irony.

1553.

Almost a sense of
soul's necrophilia here.
Everyone stays fucked.

1552.

Potential patients
huddled under bright lights and
dying, painted trees.