Depressed about Blogging

Nothing ever changes. Nothing nothing nothing. Nothing changes because I don't know how to make things better.

Why must we be so impossible to satisfy?

I'm delirious again. I recognize it, but I cannot stop myself. And yes, I knew you were there, at that very instant. And yes, I knew you were going to talk to me, to speak those unique, particular words. But what good would it have done to say so? It's not like I'm always there.

If anyone asks, I guess I could just blame the Layers again, but it isn't really their fault this time. And we all know how much fun I have trying to explain the Layers anyway.

I'm sure poets cannot analyse their own work. That's why they write poetry, dammit.

EDIT: They say things have to get worse before....