Fantasies and dreams cloud your mind, until you wake up to the persistent nightmare. You are a backmarker, there is no contention. But with practice and tuition there is a chance that the midfield could be competition. So, you fight anyway. A few others are concerned about your performance because they have their vanity to blame.
All these years racing, yet I have never been a front runner. Practice can create competitive comprehension, but there is no complicit conjuring of courage, nor confidence. Still, the Racing Gods grant me the opportunity of absolution. I choose only what has been given to me already. Judge my fate.
It has become strange to laugh and be happy and enjoy the world. For there are others who suffer even now... a vindictive chronomaly that bothers me at my merest. More faces more names more conceit. More idle thoughts more inane ideas more elusive elucidation. Could we have seen it all? No one tells me no.
Feel my tendencies and let it shine through; no matter how good this food tastes, it will become shit in The End.