I keep waiting for things to get back down to whelming, but they stay at overwhelming.

I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I want to say to you. A sea of ink would not be enough.' 'But you built me dreams instead.

Is it not that bad to be trapped somewhere, then? Depending on where you're trapped?" "I suppose it depends on how much you like the place you're trapped in," Widget says. "And how much you like whoever you're stuck there with," Poppet adds, kicking his black boot with her white one.

Each of them always gravitating toward the other. Yet still they do not touch.

The funeral is a quiet one, despite the number of mourners present. There are no sobs or flailing handkerchiefs. There is a smattering of color amongst the sea of traditional black. Even the light rain cannot push it down into the realms of despair. It rests instead in a space of thoughtful melancholy.

And there are really never endings, happy or otherwise.

The sensation reminds him of the first snow of winter, for those first few hours when everything is blanketed in white, soft and quiet.