tres drole
I’m so scared that I’m going to forget your face. I wake up in the morning losing a pixel every time. You used to drench my every moment, but as time passes I find other menial things penetrating my thoughts of you. I’m so scared that one day it will be in reverse and that instead of you being my thoughts, you will just be a background figure I refer to during an idle minute. I’ve already lost the crinkles around your eyes when you smile. To me you’re like the lingering smell after you walk through a beautiful garden and every day that passes while you are away, is a step I take further from the garden making every breath less endearing. I miss you like hell, you know? Not the good type of hell, where it’s an adrenaline rush with every heartbeat. No, it’s the type of hell that grips your heart and makes it impossible to breathe.
The last words and last meal of death-row criminals in america.
“When I was alive, I believed—as you do—that time was at least as real and solid as myself, and probably more so. I said ‘one o’clock’ as though I could see it, and ‘Monday’ as though I could find it on the map; and I let myself be hurried along from minute to minute, day to day, year to year, as though I were actually moving from one place to another. Like everyone else, I lived in a house bricked up with seconds and minutes, weekends and New Year’s Days, and I never went outside until I died, because there was no other door. Now I know that I could have walked through the walls.”
The Skull, from The Last Unicorn
