I no longer saw a good reason to live safely. Maybe I was disenfranchised and could not understand the promise of living a life of uniform investments and returns, or perhaps my anxiety was justified and there truly are no more frontiers left for us in these lands.
I know the nature of so many problems, and all the answers to them, and every single one spells out a great self-compromise. It is disheartening to think that I am among the few to see, and it has instilled in me a great sense of loneliness which I believe may endure until the end of my days among the living.
I now roam the lands of the north. The winter snowfall and the summer torrents prevent woods from expanding, making for an abundance of grass. The high peaks to the south and the position relative to the convection cell makes for an area of powerful winds. The pristine skies and the precipice of nightfall with a full moon, along with the powerful winds, causes the grass to shimmer, as if the gusts themselves were carrying the essence of the moon.
All I have with me, now, are some tools and my serviceable health. Other people carry on, yet I feel only that the world is ending. As I toil and slowly starve, all I can think about is the adversity which others do not see, my only remaining objective to find a way to confront that adversity until my demise.
I reached the 160-pattern limit with this song.