I Wonder How Well She Sleeps At

The Shadows Of The Room Pool In The Lines Of Our Faces, Draining Our Eyes Of Hue. "there's Nothing Left Worth Saying.

It Frustrates And Fascinates Me That We'll Never Know For Sure, That Despite The Best Efforts Of Historians And Scientists And Poets, There Are Some Things We'll Just Never Know. What The First Song Sounded Like. How It Felt To See The First Photograph. Who Kissed The First Kiss, And If It Was Any Good.

But We Don’t Remember Those Lives. We Can’t Read Our Diaries.’ ‘it Doesn’t Matter. We Are Where We Are, However We Got Here. What Matters Is Where We Go Next.’ ‘but Can We Choose That?’ ‘i Don’t Know.’ ‘we’re Dead. Can We Really Choose Anything?’ ‘maybe. If We Want To Bad Enough.

Nothing Is Permanent. Not Even The End Of The World.

I Don't Want To Hear Music, I Don't Want The Sunrise To Be Pink. The World Is A Liar. Its Ugliness Is Overwhelming; The Scraps Of Beauty Make It Worse.