don’t read this, it’s shit and self indulgent

when i want more than what, with hindsight bias, i should allow myself the pleasure of
, i feel guilt.
i skulk into the shade of pseudo-shame and consider the question;
is it a reinforcing or destructive drug?
i wonder if i’ll ever know for sure, or who to ask.
these days are coloured by a solemn-blue sun, but eyed as grey
, and no-one knows
, and i don’t care that no-one knows
, until much, much later, when it’s too, too late.

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