A Friend of Mine

It's a bit of introspection

A Friend of Mine

I don't expect you to ever understand why I do what I do. 

Which is perhaps my folly. and which is perhaps your folly. 

Which, again, is perhaps born of my folly. 

Born of my folly, 

sort of like my lot in life, 

but also akin to forever, 

the beginning and the end, 

and being the born receiver of a nasty hangover 

and of no form of resolution

 but also ever bespeckled with glimpses into the sort of darkness that creates a wide birth. 

The waxing gibbous lives and dies,

 haunted by a metropolis, 

forever basking in the ethereal and surreal glow of the concomitance of shame and hunger.

 Matters of the inside,

 will remain characterized by the fact that there will have always been nowt to do, 

nowt to say, 

as there was simply nothing there to begin with. 

There is nothing cathartic about this admission. 

And, honestly, I question if I ever made an admission in the first place.