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To The BrinkMemories.
Happiness. Sorrow. Love. Remorse.
Are you one as well? A passing stranger in the night, perhaps? No, how could you be?
These bothersome memories wracking my mind. Filling me with a semblance of what I once took for granted.
No... not bothersome.
A necessity, in this world of ours. Memories are but a passing echo on a lonesome breeze. Some days you find yourself pushing them away; like a dam trying to hold the swelling river back.
Other days... the dam bursts; memories long buried... forgotten by time and age come flooding back like a fire that refuses to cease burning.
Hapiness; the times when we'd ramble on... you and I. Back and forth we'd talk. Hours upon hours dedicated to only the two of us. Sometimes I believe we were merely the last two creatures on this ill-ridden place we call Earth.
Sorrow; the tell-tale signs of things to come. We both knew it couldn't go on forever, but neither of us allowed ourselves to accept it. Like a tree changing through the
Lost DespairThe shadow from a lonesome figure. Who dares wander through the tortured soul of the night?
A being with lost dreams; no time for love.
You step forth, like a child first learning how to walk. Each step gets harder and harder to take.
Can you hear that? A sound behind you; your heartbeat starts increasing.
You can't help but feel scared; but what's there to be scared of?
The unknown, of course. What lurks in the darkness... unmitigated feelings of a despair most dreaded.
A chill most cold courses down your spine; like icy fingers clawing at your back.
The sound of your breathing, the beating of your heart; it rings out in your ears.
Off in the distance, a child of the night echoes a lonely song. Like you, a being with no place to go.
You both are doomed to wander the streets, yearning for something you know nothing of.
You're stumbling now, worried about what could be behind you; but there's no one there.
The mind has a way of tricking us all; sometimes it's our own worst ene
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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