Oh please, slow this ride a little. I haven't had the time to make my time, to take my mind...away.

I haven't had the chance to bleed this out, to pick this wound clean. To force the poison through my teeth.

My shoulders slump, my breath escapes, I fold, I gave in long ago.

If it weren't for the blood in my veins I would have laid down long ago, I would have said 'enough's enough'. I would have dragged this solemn corpse into the sun and left it there to rot.

But this worming parasite resides, and it's claws dig deep. Stimuli, oh brazen warmonger, burrowing, plotting, scheming. You want me. I cannot resist you.

A paper aeroplane in a wind tunnel has no choice, has no will, no fate but to be buffeted and forced. But what if it wants more? What if it wills more?

Do I stand against the wind? Or am I merely the folded paper...with no greater fate than to be flattened against the wall?

Heavy eyes, heavy heart. I tire of this game.