wrapped in the blanket of your own demise; you wait, hesitate, never wanting to surmise. standing on the edge you step no further, not taking a chance you'll never know true fervor. true happiness is but a dream in the eyes of the lame, in the hearts of the plain and minds of the mundane. sit back and relax, let your life slip through your muddled thoughts, a copy of a copy you die like the rest of the lot. without ambition, and without dream - you're never different, you're exactly how you seem.
-you want a meaning you can memorize, a purpose you can summarize. make haste, you are what you waste.