I know you've never seen this written so. And I mean that both ways... I know that even, when the road's misleading and the notes you leave in the lonely evenings when you're alone and needing a rope of leaving to cease the breathing (please keep reading) because you tote these feelings that wove their feelers around your thinking, now you're thinking, to live is a disease so now the message delivered in your speech, is messy, and seems livid as you speak. Your thought about not living has now peaked, what you're torn about isn't what you talk about you'd rather die, than try live with it with ease.
I know the chill that seems to grow in you— you loathe it still only because you know it's deal, you know it's sealed when your hope fades, when your soul mates with the sole mate of the ghosts of your old days.
Don't ever forget that you, are the sole make of what your soul makes.
Don't ever accept that you, have to do what the cold says.
Live, because you are warmth.
