All we do now is sit around campfires.
We lean in so the heat hits our faces. The smoke makes our eyes water. Look into the orange roll and curl and the hum, the soft roar, the crackle and pretend it’s not hurting anyone. We look to the light so we cannot see the night behind us. We don’t know what’s creeping up until it’s too late.
And the children? All gone. Would you take a new-born child, so small in your arms, God’s only innocent children, and plunge them into the void? The ones left behind in the hallway, who already knew they had waited too long, they are gone too. Become caught in limbo between young and old and alive and dead.
I notice, with him, something has been lost along the way. The look in his eyes feels like home. He’s alone in a world of pretty empty faces.
There’s a frequency, a glow, a hum, and it starts to melt the brain. It’s been going for long enough, genuine souls are scarce. I was lucky to
Why do I call myself lucky? It’s all I believe in. There is nothing more to it, and everyone knows by now but no one will say it. Just pretty faces, moving towards one constant. One for men and one for women.
And there is nothing left in you. Does anyone notice? Can anyone see anything? Can they? What happened to him?
Where did all these questions come from?
I am not to ask questions. I am here to keep myself going. A walking paradox. I am here to protect. I am not a real human being.