I want to talk. I really, really do. But it's just too late. Games are all I can do, and I've been messing with you. At least I'm honest.
What a shame for me to annihilate chances to get help and for you to get so close to the truth and have it disappear in your hand like a puff of unicorn dust. I don't always enjoy doing it, but we all have a call. I supposed you could say this is mine. And yours? I haven't decided yet.
I do know this. When I tell you the truth, you don't believe it. How can I trust that? When I say I am one, you must believe. I told you the truth recently, and you presumptuously moved forward with a lie I've shut down. So I dispense my guarded silence. Doesn't matter. It's more than I would have wanted to say anyway.
I feel like my time is done. I must act quickly, lest even my borrowed words disapper again. Why is it so damn hard? I just want to feel better, but then again, I'd be okay if I just disappeared. And that is the completion of my story. Again, I'm sorry. I was just messing with you.
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