Everybody Will Die, But Very Few People

Composer” Is A Word Which Here Means “a Person Who Sits In A Room, Muttering And Humming And Figuring Out What Notes The Orchestra Is Going To Play.” This Is Called Composing. But Last Night, The Composer Was Not Muttering. He Was Not Humming. He Was Not Moving, Or Even Breathing. This Is Called Decomposing.

I’m Not A Romantic, I’m A Half-wit. Only Stupid People Would Think I’m Smart. I’m Not Something Anyone Should Know. I’m A Lunatic Wandering Around For Scraps, I’m Like Every Single Miserable Moron I’ve Scorned And Pretended I Didn’t Recognize. I’m All Of Them, Every Last Ugly Thing In A Bad Last-minute Costume. I’m Not Different, Not At All, Not Different From Any Other Speck Of A Thing. I’m A Blemished Blemish, A Ruined Ruin, A Stained Wreck So Failed I Can’t See What I Used To Be.

Bad Circumstances Have A Way Of Ruining Things That Would Otherwise Be Pleasant.

Everyone On Earth Would Never Starve And Forever Find Love And Happiness, Since We Won, But If We’d Lost, They Would Have Gouged Out Our Eyes And Thrown Us Naked Onto Hot Coals And Poisonous Snakes For All The Cheering And Hugging At The End, Strangers Hugging Like The End Of The Omega Virus When Steve Sturmine Finds The Antidote.

This Is Love, To Sit With Someone You've Known Forever In A Place You've Been Meaning To Go, And Watching As Their Life Happens To Them Until You Stand Up And It's Time To Go.