I was once sure of my words. now they appear to be more alien with each backwards glance. Surely I did not create this rambling mess, I think to myself. My words are not confident. My words don't know the meaning of delicate. They are anxiously loud and overbearing. Like a hypochondriac. They don't know when to stop. I let them out and- oh, there they are at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me with innocent and bewildered hurt. I'm sorry I can't make you better. I would if there was a reference book or a guide to fixing my self. Unfortunately we all have to blag it, and not just once either. I found a secret synonym for life but nobody knows it yet.

That's the point.