no matter how many times the sun goes down,   there is no outer space, no location.   i talk about lies on an open space,   no lines drawn, no miles speculated to trace a line around the heart.      dried up descriptions yearn for recognition.   this existence sodomized by destruction,   in some odd way is this appealing?   am i wrong for this?   is there a right for this?      persuasion will determine which cavern of my depleting youth will be ripped through and violated next.   temptation decided my actions in my heart,   and in my mind death has never brought life.      i now realize i will never find my river, but is it wrong to die trying?