Texty: Quicksand. Slip. Freezing Process.

Taken to the brink of something
Something, but we can't know what
To wait, to want, it's so bad, and
Try something, and moving to slow

To get where you want to go
Looking for results, you can't begin
To find a way out from the cold
Place you're in

But it suits you, your condition
Symptoms that keep you in, keep you from motion
Until it's cold, slowing you down
Until you can't go

Taken by something
But you can't hold on to it, you can't
It slips through your fingers
Slips through your hand

Because they're too cold
Can't get a grip on what's in your sight
It's like getting old
It's like getting told, to, sit, still

But it suits you, your condition
Symptoms that keep you in, keep you from motion
Until it's cold, slowing you down
Until you can't go

It's not me
Is there something going so wrong
Process of depraving yourself
Of peace of mind