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errors;
July 26, 2011
I find that if I write down every rule I’ve broken, the mistakes run on for miles long, great enough that if I cut them every few feet or so and wrapped them in leather and string, I could compile volumes and volumes of all the sins that tarnish my soul, the blackness that divides me from the light.
And it conquers me in the most ferocious way possible—mockery, pain, remorse, forgetting, it all claws through my bones and shreds me to countless fraying edges of the failure of continuance, the dispersion of the inability at deserving what I have.
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