It's hard to be nice when the rest of the world is so mean.
None of it meant anything, and all of it was important.
She was just a shell of her former self, functioning and talking but hardly alive.
It was like those songs I'd heard as a child, each so familiar, and all mine. When i got older and realized the words were sad, the stories tragic, it didn't make me love them any less. By then they were already part of me, woven into my conciousness & memory
Her life was perfect. But as was often the case, the rest of us were still adjusting.
It was always late at night, when everything and everyone else was quiet, that those voices would rise like ghosts, soft and haunting, filling your mind until sleep finally came.