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.