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.

Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.

I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.

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

Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.

My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.

We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.