Is there value in permanence?
Is there value in value or in indeterminants?
What's worth worth? Can anything be untrue?
Happiness is imaginary.
It's just the way you feel when you've let loose, sedated.
It's not a fraction to fill a whole; it’s a reaction, not a goal.
I can't sleep when I'm alone, but I get so tired of being on my own.
It’s time I reconcile with the unknown threat of an empty bed.
Disassociation should be your display - you'll feel connected
with all sense of self rejected - that's not to say that apathy will only make you wiser, because you'll be lonely either way.
Is there anything? Is anything anything?
Are extremes noncomiddle ends to means?
Seeds don't scatter 'til they're sown.
Things don't matter 'til they're known.
I’m tossing caution into the wind.
I'm embossed in Gaussian plots but caught up lost in dividends (the cost of parabolic trends), and I’m not qualified to quantify so what if I just defy where meaning ends?
Resistant to consistency, too exhausted to exist, I resent contented me (as if bliss could atrophy).
I've no patience for complacence or adjacent symmetry.
Dying is a fine time to be alive.
I'm trying to define what it means to thrive.
If eight is fate, how would you rate your life out of nine-to-five?
I can't sleep when I don't exist.
I'm in too deep (tried too hard, come too far, etc.) to show up shallow as this.
Is this all there is?
What's the point of seeking what was never there?