The Outlook Is Bleak

Blackened nothings whispered. I want this dead; there's no more to say. I've found myself lacking in all but a few necessary motives. Fastened to whitewashed terms. Polish made new fortitude's scorn. Polished what was. Polished that voting machine. My own private bureaucratism. False sense of security false sense of self gives you ammunition. Cold minds never feel the width of separation. Cool mines refill from seizures torn today.