The story turned out exactly like I thought it would. Which is, to say, it became a non-story. It became non-important. It became as lifeless as a dead bird smashed under a bike tire. Where once you saw something, now you see nothing. No spark. Slowly drifting into the haze, like a rag handed to you by a stereotypical 70s wrestling heel manager, knocking your own self off to slumber. I hope that in the end, it's just long, long sleep. No heaven. No singing. Just sleep, just rest from the war. I try and fail to hope that everyone sees that negativity is just pointless, until I am caught in their wave and sit here, adrift on a couch in the middle of a carpet sea, asleep dog my first mate, in a world of what ifs and never will bes and why nots and whatever. Whatever. Whatever. Whatever. If you repeat things long enough, they become a mantra. It becomes a mantra. Whatever. But you have to believe in mantras to make them real and I believe in absofuckinglutely nothing the fuck at all ever. I just want to sleep and sleep and sleep and then, sleep.

Photo - S
words - S