4 :
2 7 am
stuck between the wrong side of your own sheets you pause time night time an hour like the other you spend your slow slow hours drumming up fantastical ways in which your loved ones die a stupid necromancer of your own imagination serenading fictional agony to convince yourself that should shit hit the fan you might oh you just might break down at long last.
a hundred ways to die a mastery of scenarios of what may come that is what your late game is that is was has been your gift upon a set of shoulders that arent burdened enough to your liking just because you havent seen enough death you think more of it will somehow grant you legitimacy in a suffering that is not yours yet yet you lay claim to it like an undeserving bastard to a throne that you have no legal parental divine right to.
how many times must your loved ones die in your sleep until you give up your arrogance how many drownings decapitations illnesses murders and suicides must pass through that thick skull of yours until you satisfy yourself with the fact the absolute fact that how much you suffer for somebody does not equal how much you love that somebody?
leave and love the living;
the earth does not remember the name of the buried.
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