For all intents and purposes I've disappeared. Nothing but this shell of me remains here. That which hasn't killed me has only made me bitter. I painted this picture of myself: a liar. a quitter. Routine has been putting words into my mouth for so long now. Does it matter if I don't know what to say - if I've forgotten how to speak? We've planned out which mistakes we can make and which risks to take, and they've formed this tunnel to some distant ideal place. There's light on both ends, but I'm stuck in the middle. and Routine has made this. Mistake after mistake, risk after risk, piece by piece. If one of those pieces should happen to break, the tunnel collaspes and ruins everything. Devours any light you thought you once saw. (Even in the dark I can still see these tell-tale signs of failure and the sure-fire ways I took to get there).