Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.

Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.

And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.

The thread has snapped. No sound even to mark the breaking let alone the fall. That long anticipated disintegration, when the darkest angel of all, the horror beyond all horrors, sits at last upon my chest, permanently enfolding me in its great covering wings, black as ink, veined in Bees' purple. A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.

Through all the windows I only see infinity.

I could see her get all nervous but she was also excited. Nightmares have that quality, don't they?

...and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don't mean much to anyone except to the one who can't take any of them along.