The prospects of rejection. He can see himself in these mirrored eyes. All seasons slowly turning static, sequence revealed. All the while these mirrors have been portraits. The prospects of rejection. Time is the fire in which we burn. Our comforts: intents never seen through, passive joy. Faceless heads bruise from hitting the same wall. Endlessly these thoughts inform the themes and slowly the seconds cease to be. Of interest, influence of the memes. Irritants, outreach dies off swiftly. He;s boarding himself up in there. Struggle with choice. Satisfaction leaves him cold. Pacing in grave. Reflection on window stares back so hard. A prison without walls stands so firm. Not much longer til mind owns the man. And no one will be seeing him again. See ahead to times of longing. Feeding the future it's daily dose of past. To fill is surrender. While cobwebs and phantoms are birthed. Surmises cement at the corners. Vicious inadequacy. Dangling from the construct. a**igning power to inanimate. He slaves emotion to master. Faint doors fade with this very longing. The sun's moving faster. Is seeing the same thing, same place, same scene, same act. An end.