With weathered veins and brittle bones it's a wonder my body doesn't fall apart. The heart can only put out as much as it gets in and right now mine is running dry. Bite the bullet, suture the wound.
My body has been built on fallacies and my only question is why has men been left to his own faculties? We're pure at heart before it begins to beat, we're honest men before we speak, and we're set for heaven but we'll damn ourselves to hell.
Bite the bullet, suture the wound.
If you don't straighten yourself out you'll be food for the hounds. Those who prey on sick men like me who forgot to pray to a god whose love seems spent on nickel plated men and dime a dozen girls.
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