There is nothing left to write but something true. So here it.
There is no feeling anymore. Feel. The world. Nothing.
Catalogue life or the sudden cool of foreign sun.
Not the way it is told in history books because what they forget is this. Us.
Take two hundred years and who are we?
Our villians, not the public ones but our personal killers will survive in some future form.
Evil must prevail to keep bliss an accomplishment. That is not a problem.
This is real. Possible apeirophobia. Everything must end.
I am not afraid of ending, it is an endless cycle of skin and bone that kills me.
One born. One forgotten.
You are alive and then you are not.
Then less than not. Never.
As if you had always been a photograph
damp in the attic of some five hundred year old stranger.
What are the alternatives?
Become one of those forever junkies lost in the point of no return. Casually breaking down with each year?
Shakespeare will be forgotten
so who are you?