Now I don't believe

I wish to be left alone, though "left alone" is not what I'll be.

All of muse's intimations are gone, leaving me as one made from bone and dried spit.

I often find myself this way.

Can you see how I've been made autumn-brown and dilatory?

I feel phlegmatic -- and I've never found occasion to use that word before.

I feel also as if I've set myself on a perpetual, self-inaugurative cycle of suffering. I often shortchange myself in order to shield others from things repellent.
"I am trapped in this world, lonely and fading..."

Is that an ugly, ungainly attempt at conveying angst?

I feel pathetically inadequate at expression right now...