Makes sense to me.

Click. Picture. Only a photograph of a memory I never had. it seems as though the thought of what could be or what was or what could never be is better than the what is. what is is what is now and what i wonder is what was i thinking when i walked my weary weeping right smack into a wall. what i dont know is what if i would wander willingly blind into a waving beyond hopping hoping for a hint of happiness pending possible happiness preempted perturbation. Probably perturbation would prick the nerve in ninety nuances of my near and dear. i think about the what could i would if i could but the possibility won't present itself. so stagnant seeping weeping swillfull no longer willfull i drench in stench of laziness. But its not lazy, the haze and fog and smog of confusing no longer amusing games of dames and johns just hurts and only dirt seems to fly up in my eyes. So i sleep weep seep into the creamy steamy dream of what seems as though it could lean into reality. but if the real were to steal a feel back into my surreal, i would tell it to go fuck itself. cuz im done.