Sometimes we dream of really nice things, And then we die.
Our body betrays us In the moments we least expect It hides from our hearts And says: We are our own.
There are three things that can always be found in mass I have been all and both and some.
It's very hard to start once you've stopped.
today must things always be tinted with a viscid shade of black where happier things are rendered more mute, and hearts so warm are chilled in a time? this kind of curse is plenty murderous-- a form of death that burns, heralding the quiet of the soul, the fading of a smile, the slow slumber of connection gone. Because this is a mark that chooses not to leave; increasing, drowning all of you deserving.