I'm very floaty, very write-y.
I cannot put it all down into words that mean what I want it to mean.
Stories begin and then find themselves an end, and I stare at it, wondering how it got there.
I am very floaty, very write-y.
And this golden rose, it stares back quietly.
I do not even know how to begin.
It's funny, seeing all them different lives that you are no longer a part of anymore.
There is relief, that tinge of 'that-never-happened-to-me-ness', wonder, but relief, most of all.
We dig through our rubbish, once in a while. That ever-present pile that we never bloody seem to throw out. And they make for bloody good laughs, I'll tell you that.
You realize the utter stupidity, the games and the continuous mind-fucking that you called love.
We've come quite a bit of a way.
"Well I, for one, never cared for games anyway."
"And what if you did?"
"But I didn't."