The days do start in walks, through rain and fire, thrown in open roads of plastered streets; no gun control or sympathy. In a way it's ecstasy: The absence of an energy, that keeps pushing away.
I've read bibles-worth of memories, but none do feel the same to me. . .If you break me, I promise not to scream. Its always just another sleep - away from feeling more awake. . .Whatever the fuck that means.
You want to know a piece of hope? - There's none, you bite down on that rope. It levitates you from your road, and shows you light is fading soon. . .going through passages known, but practiced rarely, (as I'm told.)
The comfort grows when winter shows a smile at the door - she knows me more than I've ever allowed myself to be known. I've hoped for less, and if I die tomorrow I'm okay with it. It's the brink of floating through a dream, before forgetting you're asleep. She holds me through each night, and see. . .her body on mine - feel her breathe. "Someday she will hate me."
The end: the same, but something changed - you wear a smile on your face. You meet new people everyday - is this life what living means? After allowing entropy, over too long to seem okay, it's nice to wake up not afraid of what in life's surrounding me.