Comfort is but a moment, no more than a moment of time in which one does not feel Motivation nor do they want, envy, feel gratitude or even think. One simply exists. This existence is on par with that of the rocks and leafs that do not populate the world but merely are in this world as we know it.
It may be tempting to assume that comfort based of this is but a living death. To do this however is to dismiss the joy of comfort, what true comfort is however is the perfection of your environment in an imperfect mind.
About the Creator
alan edwin innes
I've been writing for as long as i can remember, most of its crap but some of it might be good.
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[temporary] bunker story
went to sleep in america. [first draft] who am I? I suppose I'm not the first person to ask that but I'm afraid I might be the last. I woke up recently in a hospital bed. I remember on my nineteenth birthday scheduling with some friends to go... I think golf I cant quite remember but now I'm here in what I think is an underground bunker. There aren't any calendar's in here least that I have found so far, although there are a lots of skeletons.
By alan edwin innes2 years ago in Fiction
Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Craven4 days ago in Fiction
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