500 miles walked, was not 500 miles wasted.

I wonder if you’ve been listening to my voice memos.

I grow softer with each passing day.

I tire from it all.

I hope it’s enough.

Ain’t got much left in the tank ol’ chap.

Been fighting this thing inside me that’s been trying to make me gun cold.

Close, but no cigar.

Do you see as icy?

Do you read as I wreathe?

Endopo is only touched. And there is still the core.

You should see how I feel time. How I see it. Or at least, how I did.

Another one bites the dust.