A Sickly Little Smile Grew And Died

Scars Are Memory. Like Sutures. They Stitch The Past To Me.

The Summer Stretched Out The Daylight As If On A Rack. Each Moment Was Drawn Out Until Its Anatomy Collapsed. Time Broke Down. The Day Progressed In An Endless Sequence Of Dead Moments.

So Long As It Fated, Fate Didn't Care What It Fated.

If You're Brave Enough To Try, You Might Be Able To Catch A Train From Unlondon To Parisn't, Or No York, Or Helsunki, Or Lost Angeles, Or Sans Francisco, Or Hong Gone, Or Romeless.

There Are Only So Many Ways To Experience Pain. There Are An Almost Limitless Number Of Ways To Inflict It, But The Pain Itself, Initially Vividly Distinct In All Its Specifications, Becomes, Inevitably, Just Pain.