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[12 Apr 2008|07:33pm] |
There's something inside that still tells me to write sometimes.
But whenever I sit down to do it, I just feel so tired and worn. Like there's nothing left.
The well's run dry and the people will die, wither away. Without water, there can be no life.
And without life all you have is a cluster of empty buildings. Sometimes you can hear the doors of the abandoned houses banging in the wind. Other than that, there is no sound, aside from the insects.
Dear world,
I am dying of the plague, and if you haven't caught it yet, you will. You will all be lifeless, you will all be crushed, you will all cease to exist. There is no salvation, there is no hope, there is no life after this. Death really is the end.
Futility is reality.
I can feel myself slipping again.
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