What a tremendous arsehole.
Better late than never they told me, while failing to mention that in cases of love and war, being late will only get you heartbroken and killed. Both likely feel the same.
I feel so somber. Maybe it’s because of the events of today and the affirmation that life is terrifyingly short or the conversation I had, but I’ve sighed enough life out of me for one night.
"Urgh, can this get any more depressing?"
Five pages later…
You don’t remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.
There is really nothing more to say - except why. But since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in how.