S. Hines
NaNoWriMo
Not a paradox, a complexity.
Summer, a long time before.
	I've never actually taken the time to look up the real meanings of the words “subjective” and “objective”; nor will I any time soon. Sometimes I choose not to know words that I think people use to sound smart, and sometimes I know words only to use when sounding smart, the hope being that I am infact intelligent, but that’s a different issue.
	I've been told I'm introspective, and I have no idea what that means. I was told early in life that I was articulate, and I didn't really know what that meant until just last year, when I figured it out by accident. I may or may not be those things now, but at one point I went along knowing I was but not knowing what that actually meant. Its strange, how words work.
	Most words cultivated inside a language have a real meaning, they are rooted in real things and ideas, experiences shared by enough people for the word to be linguistically useful. Beauty being such a word. Beauty, beautiful, those words, they are of that gorgeous, nebulous kind of word that can mean almost anything in any situation. I'm sure Beauty held more meaning at some point, but in this day and age beauty can be thrown around as any common adjective, right along with awesome, and perfect, and love, and everything; all those huge fantastic words that anyone can use to fill the holes in an explanation.
	Beauty has taken up a poor flavor, for myself at least. Being a young person, its hard to tell things that always were from things what happened to develop as my mind became strong enough to articulate the thing; however, I've noticed that people associate beauty and the pursuit thereof with the twisted ways and thoughts and practices of people who try very hard to appear physically beautiful, or people who obsess over a vestige of perceived physical beauty, people who work to fit in a general mold of humanity dictated by the mythical social norms that people love to blame things on. When I tell some on that they are beautiful, however, I do not mean any of those things.
	For myself to be acutely aware, or to have convinced myself that I am acutely aware of such a twisted meaning, can be a very dangerous thing. Avoiding actions which I think may convey weakness, vapidity, or simplicity, has a way of making things very complicated; and at some point, I found that the easiest way to avoid such internal conflict this is to become cold or sarcastic, or wholly humorous; as an alternate means of detaching yourself from situations and avoiding things which may want for you to call in some vague and convoluted set of social interactions or personal explanations, humour is rather fantastic; a form of highly social antisocial behavior. Not a paradox, a complexity. I'm guessing, to you, it sounds like a great personality flaw, some sort of massive superiority thing; It's not though. It's more about fear, being terrified  of  how others see you. Of course, that is infact how all the worst (or best, I could say) superiority complexes begin. You can't be better than other people, so pretend. Pretend until you get yourself stuck so deep in it you have to accept it as reality. Dangerous, I can't think about such things for very long.












 It begins to make sense.
In a dream, needless to place in time.
	My mind dwells now on concrete pillars, probably hundreds of thousands of feet tall. I wonder how they stand their own weight; I wonder how they stand the weight of the wind; such a structure must have thousands and thousands of pounds of pressure pushing against it, even in a mild breeze. It is my understanding that higher up in the atmosphere, there are even stronger winds never felt by humans on the ground. These structures certainly extend that far from the ground, I wasn't able to see their tops, or ends, from miles away, and I can't see them now. Such a thing is very strange to look at from far away, like clouds, they look perfect, normal, they belong; but one sometimes realize exactly how enormous clouds are; its simply absurd, how something so soft, perfect,beautiful; could dwarf a city, dwarf a lesser organic satellite; yet one can see all of their bulk in a glance. One look, you see its top, its bottom, its edges, all of it. A simply gigantic thing, one look. Theses pillars extend beyond the clouds, I believe. One could marvel at them from the top of a mountain; I wonder, does a large enough structure begin to strain against the movement of the earth itself? A sail fighting the orbit, the spin? Another though occurs, does the atmosphere spin exactly with the earth? As a collection of gases, I wonder how it could deal with such movements; I wonder if this is a field of study. Atmospheres are one of the singularly most interesting things I can think of; along with clouds, a product of atmosphere, and the human mind, existing only because of the cloud of gas constantly moving in the general direction of the dense iron center of our world. It begins to make sense why a person would devote their life to an entity they believe to have created the universe and everything held within; it is all about ratios however, about scope; there are lesser things that have greater impact on my personal situation as an entity capable of thought and possessing of animalistic feeling . These pillars, for instance, I want to know what has made them, who; I want to know if they bear the weight of the world turning, or simply their own mass, perhaps the centrifugal force of the earth spinning is what keeps them standing. I forget how this connects to theology. These pillars excite me, my thoughts can not be wholly trusted at this moment.
 Remembering a very long time before.
Winter, presently,
	I'm not sure I can remember forever, but I would not like to forget; I would not like to forget her eyes, meeting mine for only a second, before rolling back, eyelids lowering in bliss, or in an imitation of bliss, wholly convincing.
	I would not like to forget her hand moving through her hair, down her neck; her body twisting. I would not like to forget the lights screaming across the ceiling and puddling on the ground, filling the void of the  room and making things liquid for our enjoyment. I am already forgetting the details of the music, though the most basic, primitive of sounds are hard to forget. Rather, I never remembered in the first place, but I remember the thoughts accompanying and can thus imagine for the sake of my own memory. The steady beats, simple or no melody, made on machines, futuristic and ancient all at once, music spiraling from all points and places. I remember my realization of the music, not the details.
	There is a reason a rave culture developed. It’s fantastic, really a trance, in any state of mind. Just the humans in the room and the music and the lights, your own body moving and your individuality slipping as you melt into just another hominid swaying to war drums around a fire. I do not want to forget, but in such a trance these things become hard to remember. There is little call for remembering when you are living, physically, not mentally, doing, moving, seeing. But I remember her eyes, meeting mine, maybe only once or twice the entire night, from 11:00 at night till 2:40 in the morning, maybe three times.
	It is not true, what people say, that eyes are the window to the soul. The soul is hidden in a labyrinth, constantly falling apart and built up in new places, convoluted and decaying, repaired by the continued existence of the human carrying the soul. The soul, infact, clings to this labryinth, it is not a single object. One can only see the bits of  soul dripping from the cracks and from the celing, puddling where the floor of the labyrinth has sunken. The soul can no be seen as a whole, it can not be found; it is not so simple or quaint. It can perhaps be remembered and described by the carrier of the soul, perhaps it can be theorized; and these conceptualizations shared with chosen few, doubtlessly edited and synopsized, probably flawed. Certainly flawed. I trust no one who relates to me their soul, and I myself have a hard time relating such things, as I am certain there will be flaws.
	The eyes are not windows to the soul. But the eyes are windows to the body, to the person's conscious mind. Eye contact means connection, existence, lack there of means non registry, non being, it means ignorance or forgetfulness. Our eyes met, we existed, we connected, and I would like to remember that all of my life. When another human looks in to your eyes, you can be certain they are looking at you for a moment, it is a wondrous thing. Undervalued.
	I don't believe the conscious mind and the soul are the same; the mind is the part of you living and breathing, the soul is everything left over, People will resist such changes, call apoun themselves to remain individual in shifting circumstance. But I believe most people are too animal to act this way forever,in all circumstance. People will do what they need to do in order to prevail, to succeed; to become comfortable and secure. Such fleeting humans are frowned apoun generally, however. Soulless. Maybe it is a weakness. Staring down the barrel of a brand new place and brand new people with brand new rules, you might set yourself aside for a while. You might forget yourself. I walked into the dance with a head full of anger and doubt and loneliness, and soon I became  animal, just the lights and the music and the sweating individuals around me. My conscious mind never stopped reacting and perceiving, but the collapsing labyrinth of my memories and thoughts got locked up for a while. Nothing to see but a sweaty kid in a cool hat throwing himself around in time to tuneless house music.





If you knew me as well as I knew myself, you'd look down on me too.
Some time before, only thoughts, nothing important.
	I tend to look down on myself. It's not something I adopted, it's not conscious, usually, not till later; but it's a part of my personality and good sense  has prompted me to accept it. And it's not baseless, if you knew me as well as I knew myself, you'd look down on me too; Or maybe you wouldn't;  perhaps, you could at least appreciate why I'd be so hard on myself.
	I believe firmly in empathy, and sympathy. Many  people think those things do not exist, or perhaps, hold no real importance. Or, that such things are simply adopted by simple people to sound or complete, more understanding, more sensitive; But they do exist, as real reactions of rational humans. Empathy is an important emotion. It requires a level of understanding, however, it holds selflessness; for one to be emphatic still places you slightly outside of self interest, even if you are making an effort to be empathic to avoid appearing senseless or cold. Empathy shows an understanding, as well as an appreciation for humanity, not the good parts, the bad ones. To understand why someone might be angry, why it may be making them react as they are, requires more than a reference point or median for anger reactions throughout the human race, it requires you to have been angry yourself. However, human beings are far more complex than their immediate experience, but I believe true empathy requires an appreciation of this as well. You are not reducing another to one thing, you are simply appreciating some things present in a human and taking them into consideration with a







Winter, presently.
	We walked about 2 miles in the snow, and had a  few more to go. We were dressed for it certainly, we were prepared, physically. It was dusk, the gray of the clouds had made the hours look all the same, from when we went out at 6, again at 12, and 7 or 8 now; we didn't have anything to  tell the time with on our persons. It was growing darker now, we kept walking through the snow, tiring as it was, it was a good walk. We hadn't spoken for some time, not more than was necessary, she spoke and it struck me; an important conversation. Some conversations sound important, some are important and sound usual. Sometimes we sit in the silence of the winter and just stare at each other, sometimes I think those times are the most important. But now she was speaking, over the crunch and ploff of the snow, over the faster breathing and rustle of clothes and gear hanging off our bodies.
“I use to get lost”
“did you?”
I decided I would let her explain herself, then ask. At some point, you learn that you can't fix people, you can't help them, you are not their doctor or therapist. Sometimes, they just want you to know.
“Yes,  before”
“How do you mean, lost?”
“I take to many steps, took, rather,  in too many different directions, then I'd get lost;”
She paused in speech, her rough voice trailing just enough to know she was still thinking. She kept walking with at a steady pace, under the heavy winter fatigues, under the rifle, handgun, provisions, and radio device. I carried my own handgun, our ammo, my own provisions, our water. She resumed:
“I think I'm lost right now.”
“Certainly not on our way to West Tower...”
“No, not lost here, not physically”
“A matter of emotion?”
“A matter of life”
We breathed, and kept walking. We both ruminated. Some time later, many steps, I started to speak, stopped quickly, reviewed what I planed to say, then spoke:
“One is lost when one knows not the way, knows not the area surrounding?”
“Yes,”
“And you are lost in life, perhaps now, frequently in the past?”
“Yes.”
“Lost in life”
“Lost in everything,” she paused again.
“lost in always.”
	We continued to walk and ruminate. It was very poetic, lost in everything, lost in always. Like lyrics, like a poem; that was her most wondrous quality, when she spoke openly, it was poetic; gorgeous.
“are you worried about now, about being lost?”
“Perhaps”
“No one would blame you.”
“I'd blame myself.”
	We ended again. We could take our time, we had a lot of time. Being close to death, somehow; gave us a lot of time. Or perhaps, it made what we had to say more important than the time we had to say it. Either way, we took our time. I think, we'd rather we were remembered on something said well than half of everything said poorly. We did not speak more on the subject for some time.
	Over all the things we wore and carried, he had white cloaks; made by someone somewhere, thick blankets of varying make and warmth, covered with a white sheet on the outside, cut to hang over the left arm and open for the right, with a hood and veil. They hung never below the knees, but sometimes only to the thigh. They were made to be quiet, warm, and white; all essential for winter travel. Theoretically, If the need arose, we could dig ourselves into a snowbank with the cloak draped around us, and we could stay their indefinitely. It wouldn't be warm, but it would be better than laying prone in a bright pink winter coat salvaged from a near by farm. The barrel of the scoped hunting rife stuck out from the front of hers, wrapped in white cloth. She had tan carheart pants over the top of various other layers, but they were so incrusted with snow it would take a good eye to pick them out anyways.
	West tower was infact the bottom half of an old barn and a silo with a walled platform added on top. There was an old farm house about 100 yards away from the



A conversation on the top of west tower, winter, presently.

Existence and non existent, as far as we know are permanents as they are matter and anti matter, things that as humans, confirm existence or not

So technically there's no escape or end from  Or for anything, everything keeps on going
existence as a human and chemical existence are different
My mind percives
my mind remembers
when my mind stops, I will no longer exist
chemically, I will exist
forever, yes

Humans and chemicals are the same I should mention though... You as a human would be not really gone but moved or reset
I see death as the termination of the brains function
thus the termination of the individual

The atoms however never deplete
No
But the arrangement of the atoms composing my brain and allowing it to think and feel will disassemble

Which if you think about it can technically be rearranged in the exact same order and then you can or would be formed again, something not impossible.

It'd actually be you and your thoughts again, so to say that escaping or ending it does virtually or technically nothing, back to the point I was trying to make, there's no end rally

Really*
I do not believe that a human life can recreated though

Technically it can with odd circumstances but it's near impossible
I believe that is is wholly impossible
I see myself as a product of circumstance leading all the way back to the creation of the universe
ever human being
every
thus every human life being wholly individual, because of the circumstacne
its like destiny, but with no planning
just a spiral of reactions
so many reactions that could never be recreated

That's true, and life Is a gift, amazing, and unique
Not really. Life is amazing, and uniqe, however, not a gift

Every small detail is an actual thing that's been there for forever

I meant it as a gift considering you're the only one who has and understands it for and to yourself.
that does not make it a gift
such allignment can lead to any number of awfull things

I can understand life as well, but not as you or anything or one else does
that is true

What is good and bad though?

There isn't really a good and bad, just a different set of reactions to different things, to a liking or not.
There is not  a cosmic good and bad, I agree
however
humans do have liking

You wouldn't like if the world exploded, but that doesn't mean it's bad, everything is natural in a sense
That give no importance to humanity however
making life, not a gift
If life is important, it is is all we have
than the enjoyment of life is paramount

And it kind of is

Life is Technically just movement
Thats still dismissing the importance of life
of comprehention
I think, therefore I am
and that is important
I am occupied with more than movement

Better described as object's progression through time, moving about from noticeable place to place.
I disagre
that is existance
life is perception
Life and existance are not one
you exist throughout your lifetime

Existence is actually just being able to notice or perceive something as being there, I described movement
I disagree

Existence is actually a form of proof

Through other objects
A building exists
but a building does not live a human life

It moves though, and life is our movement and actions which is movement

The building is moving, everything is, everything is alive

If you're not moving you're not alive.

I mean, of course, full movement, bodily inside and out

That includes reactions
You are still dismissing human life
a human life is more than the sum of the human's physical movments at a given moment

Well human life is when reactions inside a human body cease and stop working Or repeating, so that the body cannot continue doing things it normally can or is supposed to do
that is not human life, that is death of the human being

I meant to explain human life's death
It is not the death of the life, it is the death of the being as a human
life can end before the body ceases function

But either way all of those actions are movement of some kind

Are you describing life as living or life as movement?

Life as living is what we know as a normal identifiable action of some sort from a human that shows us they are alive

Life as movement is what I described before
Not a single thing in this universe is without physical minor movement

There are of course many different interpretations of life though, as there are with any word
that is not equal to the sum of a human life
I agree, everything moves
a human life if the perceptions of the brain operating within the physical human being, and all connected processes
inculding the actions of others and their effect on the humans mental state
that is not equal to the physical movment of the humans chemical structure

Human life is basically everything humans body's do most normally

Either way.

You should do what makes you feel good.

It's all we know how to do and can really do
That is not wholly true
there are many things that make humans 'feel' good

I'm being basic because I want you to be happy
I mean
shifting gears from suicide to happiness is a little much
but thank you
I hope to feel good in the future
and I hope you do as well

True but after all that talking you have to admit that you don't feel as bad, hopefully anyways, I know I don't.

Just do things that make your body feel good. Stuff that makes you smile or twitch with happiness or done kind of good emotion. Do stuff that you want to do.

Some kind*

Yes during these years of our lives we often feel like dying because of chemicals, but then after we don't.

I don't think people really know how to truly explain everything and anything

But that's why we keep moving on, and you should too, you're pretty awesome

I think people have committed suicide because they got to a tough patch in life and didn't have help or went too far, but that's my belief on just what happens.
I need to sleep,good talk though




















	Winter, presently.
	As we exhaled, the moisture in our breath turned the invisible clouds of CO2 into puffs, clouds, fog. Something simple, something excellent. We stood watch outside of a small concrete building on the outskirts of a once abandon farm. She smoked, I watched. We both kept looking out across the horizon, a sweeping glaciaral plane traveling generally down, smaller hills rising here and there. It made for a great view in the light of a large moon in a cloudless sky. The horizon had changed though. There use to be pillars of red lights standing from the hilltops; radio towers. There use to be banquettes of lights sweeping across the farthest away hills and peaks; towns, homes; not gone, but dark now. To the north, and the west, there use to be hazes of pink where great cities stood. No longer. I wondered if there were any lights; if  one were in the streets; or in the surrounding country, if one could tell a great city stood. Black out, the idea was not. Not from a plane, not from a ship. Cities that once cast light through the atmosphere hundreds of miles now dark, gone. This made for excellent stars however. Stars are one of those things that absoultuley amazes me, and yet, I'll only glance at them for a few moments. Clouds as well, and beautiful people; sunsets. Things that are fantastic; somehow, I almost prefer not to see them. I should ruminate on this, I do not know why it is. I once compared it to not wanting to watch a movie you know will make you sad, but I realize now the flaws in the analogy. I do not know how these things will make me feel, and I'm not sure what exactly I'm going to see. Fire is similar, but fire is more trance like, more enticing, for me personally. Perhaps once I took the time to stare into a fire long enough to want to do it again, but never have I done this for star filled skies or sunsets or the face of a beautiful person.

	A while before. Only thoughts, nothing important.
	I consider his height. He is really a huge man, With a youthful face and a high school wardrobe, which made him look like a smaller, younger boy who was simply scaled up. He was not lanky, though he was not of any incredible girth or build, simply a proportional human being with the height set to x feet and all other ratios in accordance with the height. I imagined him to be about 7 feet tall, because he leaned or bent over when speaking or  listening, making him appear about 6  and a half feet tall. Standing at his full height he stood well over me, and I stand about 6 feet myself. The man's mannerisms were in accordance; in my short life I have learned that many men will work to fill out or match their physical appearance, or will appear to operate in such a way, however, there are things that can tell you a lot more about the way of the person inside of a body. Perhaps through lack or experience, I have a hard time finding these same ques when interacting with women, and that does not say anything about womenfolk, only about myself. I guess I know what to look for in men. Or maybe I don't. However, the tall bar tender scribbles orders out in a hand seeming to belong to a middle school boy, with no inaccuracies in spelling, but a sort of simple and under practiced scratch. He is quiet, and he looks at you when you speak, even though in almost any other century the man surely would have been a great warrior or king, perhaps a great builder or blacksmith. Something great, when physical size was tied to accomplishment in society. In the MarLea's bar and grill, the man acted like a shy young boy who woke up to find himself 7 feet tall and 22 years old, and after a brief period of shock went back to his normal boyish routine and mannerisms.
	Strangely, I got out of work on time, 8pm. Usually, I walk out around 9, sometimes 10, 11 once; 8:45 if I'm lucky. But today I was in my car by 8:05, down the road, home before 8:30. On my way out, I stopped and asked the bar tender for one of the cheap energy drinks the owners keep stocked. The bar tender was new, his 2nd shift working on the same night as me, perhaps his 4th or 5th ever in this particular bar and grill.
	He cast around the fridges and freezers of the bar looking for the energy drink, perhaps thinking it was some sort of alcoholic drink or particular beer he had never served before. The owners of the bar were themselves at the bar, having drinks and talking to everyone as they do frequently, and he floated the name of the drink tentative with a questioning look; attaching my name on the end so the owners knew it was for me. I couldn't hear him exactly, or if I did I do not remember.“That cooler there, in the cans”. He looked at the can and realized what I was asking for. The owners smiled on one looked at me and yelled across the bar; “You'll never get to sleep if you have one of those”; I replied that I wouldn't get to sleep anyways, and they were correct, I did not fall asleep for some hours after the drink.


	I think back to our conversation on the way to west tower, I bring it up as smoothly as I can. I am interested in what she has to say.
“Do you get lost in your cigarets?”
“No.” I giggle, and she continues to blow out smoke, it mixes with the fog of my breath and clears quickly in the breeze.
“Tonight,” she begins
“Tonight I'm lost in my past.”
“lost in your past?”
“regret, despair,”
the cigaret nears its end, she drags, throws it to the snow and exhales very very slowly.
“sorrow, anger.” She finishes.
She leaves it at that. We both look out across the horizon.
Presently, winter.
	She sits in the passenger side, myself driving. It feels good after a long time of running and walking and sitting and riding; to drive. I didn't forget how, something I'm glad of, maybe out of practice. We travel at a good pace however.
I don't get lost in specific things, I get lost between it all; work, school, people, places, future, past plans, plots, thoughts; All of it, everything. I'm lost in everything.

How are you lost in your past?

I have a lot to hate about myself
And it affects how I move forward

What don't you like about yourself?
Its one of those things
Theres so much, I can't explain it
I hardly want to try

If you knew that at the end of every path laid the exact same thing, but there were fifty of them, would you move forward or stay in the same spot?

There's no rewind or path behind you, only moving forward, but there's paths you can take.

That's basically life
Problem is, nobody knows where those paths lead
I sure don't

Yeah we do, we just all deny it though.
all I see is an assload of directions I could run into an assload of dense fog and I have no idea whats going to happen

We all well as the sun is bright and not to look in it know that at the end of every path we take is death.
It's the shit before death I'm worried about

But that's scary, right?
I'm not afraid of death

Well that's true, life is scary.

But everything that happens before death won't matter when it comes

So do what you can and want while you can and want to, pick a path, shoot blindly if you need to.
thats what I do

Nothing really matters before death, so do everything
Now, it might help to know that I've been very very close to killing myself before
which is a rather personal fact for me
death doesn't scare me, I've welcomed it before

I have too, it's not fun...
I've hoped for buses to hit me, bombs to all on my head

Yeah I'll admit I've considered suicide based off of the idea that something will come when I die
Whats before death does matter to me, because I decided It was too pathetic to die before making anything of myself

Probably mean or weird or maybe rude question, but why did you want to die?
Its not rude
it is hard to answere though

Like, did you want to escape, or find something out, or restart?
I saw a bunch of people who would only remember a weird looking kid who was bad at everything
I had a head full of memories of being strange and making awfull choices
and I had a bunch of shit I knew I'd never be able to do or have
it was all too much

You wanted to restart or escape then...?
I want it to stop
wanted

Escape I take it
Not escape
I wanted it to stop
to be over
I don't see that as escape
I guess, it is literally

That's, not to argue, but kind of the same thing.

To stop problems is to enter a state with no problems

Though to be fair and answer something, dying does neither of those

Dying does nothing for anybody who dies
thats why I don't see it as escape
Its the end
its the peace out button
shooting up heroine is escape
death is death

I was trying to explain why you would've wanted to die though.

Or something .-.
I wanted to stop
as an individual human being, I wanted my existance to be over
I wanted everyone to move the fuck on and forget that I happend
I came to the realization within my personal philosophy
that human life is a set of circumstances
essentially random

I don't mean to upset or depress you but existence never disappears



Anger is alive, anger is warm and human

But what if I become cold and disgusting?

I have a crude body, and I am slowly becoming a crude person. Before my grace and dignity finnally leaves me, I wanted to tell you something:

It seams unfair that someone can trap another human being within their fear;
The way he loves you terrifies me.
Its nice sometimes, to decide what you think and how you feel


	I am not as inspired right now, and this scares me. It makes me sad, as well; at one point in the past a certain part of my mind was functioning better than it is now, this implies failure to me. I do not believe someone's past achievements measure them presently as a human being, but this causes a problem, as I am an artist, and a writer, making the focus of my life the creation of things, achievements, one would say, giving me no way to measure myself on the things I but the most passion and effort into. Intolerable on nights like this. Perhaps I should try to fix that. This means, I only feels accomplished when accomplishment can be projected, if I am getting better, shaping up; as I accomplish, I lose connection to the accomplishment. As I begin to achieve, I feel wholly gratified, good, worthy. Very strange. I've been aware of my thinking in this way, but only now I see the major flaw. Intolerable, simply. I must go about fixing it.


	I have a very hard time looking at Her. When I do, I get stuck, every detail, every inch, and every hair, ever angle and plane, the way the light bounces and wraps her body. There are those who say that beauty does not exist, since meeting her I have not been in agreement with those people.


	Beauty has an air of possession, it tastes of envy, something has beauty, maybe not you, maybe that upsets you. Things are beautiful, or they are not. Maybe you are ugly, beauty only makes you more aware of that, maybe you are ugly, but by possessing things of beauty you can forget that fact, lay it aside as you fondle your beautiful possessions.

When you're like me, you never have good days

woke up even rested
slept in late
hang out, talking, laughing
working moving forward somehow then
bang sun goes down
just like
no
not today please god but god doesn't have any say
the ghosts come out and its just like gone
can't think can't hardly breath
moving but there’s nothing left to me
scarred empty

Needs to be more sad, more empty, needs to taste more like how I feel