I Don't Want To Hear Music, I

I'm Watching Her Talk. Watching Her Jaw Move And Collecting Her Words One By One As They Spill From Her Lips. I Don't Deserve Them. Her Warm Memories. I'd Like To Paint Them Over The Bare Plaster Walls Of My Soul, But Everything I Paint Seems To Peel.

Is This Muteness A Real Physical Handicap? One Of The Many Symptoms Of Being Dead?or Do We Just Have Nothing Left To Say?

What's Wrong With People?" She Says, Almost Too Quiet For Me To Hear. "were They Born With Parts Missing Or Did It Fall Out Somewhere Along The Way?

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.

It’s Not About Keeping Up The Population, It’s About Passing On Who We Are And What We've Learned, So Things Keep Going. So We Don’t Just End.