The moment the light went out, everyone stopped pretending.
Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.
I feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys
I want life and in all its stupid sticky rawness.
It's a strange feeling, being so utterly surrounded by her. Her life scent is on everything. She's on me and under me and next to me. It's as if the entire room is made out of her.
I don't know... there's something kind of beautiful about it, don't you think? That we keep living and growing even though our world is a corpse? That we keep coming back no matter how many of us die?