Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me.

She kept watching the words.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't be asking such things...' She let the sentence die its own death

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

I always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems.