I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming; the scraps of beauty make it worse.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

I can’t seem to make myself care about anything to the right or left of the present.

That's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.

I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.

Even in my bravest moment, I am a coward.

The world that birthed that story is long gone, all its people are dead, but it continues to touch the present and future because someone cared enough about that world to keep it. To put it in words. To remember it.