So here i am, once again facing the treble of my

So here i am, once again facing the treble of my own bass line. It all seems so puny now. I can barely feel my hands, my fingers became less than simple hanging sticks on the carcass of the dying body of a slow burning soul.
As slow as the cigarette that amused it.
Now it all seems so in vain.
What i did was back then, right now it nothing no more.
Like the dropping value of the dollards, simple difference though.
I am pretty sure bucks have a chance to rise again.
Against the amused and simply mean matador just like the god to my horns.
Tonight i swear it all goes to hell.
The it is not a place of fire, but a place of ice and cold.
And just like hand holding ice-cubes, you will burn with, not even smoke.