With each trigger constantly one day away I feel the need to give up. What’s the use of running shoes if your demons keep pace. What’s the use of the old words when the new are all so golden in their own eyes. I’m leaving out the question marks because these questions need no answers. As rare as that is in my line of work. I just lay the day away with whiskey and cigarettes. Leaving out the poetry and just writing cold. I need a saviour as much as I hate it. But I notice everything so I know they aren’t coming. What a strange life. 

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