I can predict what will be said before it’s even said.
I sat in the back of the room and watched the last year waltz by.
And I’m the same for it.
Sick more often. And more often my phrase to live by was I just don’t care. Seasons still changed; life still went on. Another day, another dollar. New people moved in to the house and old people moved out. Some were born. Others died. There was love and there was hate, I think for myself, the latter, more often. The world sunk a little further on its way to hell. I found myself tearing the covers off of another superstition or two people would have you believe when you’re still naught but a gullible mind.
Everything’s suddenly Ecclesiastic.