I Want The Same One, The Way

There Had Never Been A Death So Foretold.

It's Much More Important To Write Than To Be Written About.

Her Laugh Was Sad And Taciturn, Seemingly Detached From Any Feeling Of The Moment, Like Something She Kept In The Cupboard And Took Out Only When She Had To, Using It With No Feeling Of Ownership, As If The Infrequency Of Her Smiles Had Made Her Forget The Normal Way To Use Them.

Nobody Deserves Your Tears, But Whoever Deserves Them Will Not Make You Cry.

Perhaps This Is What The Stories Meant When They Called Somebody Heartsick. Your Heart And Your Stomach And Your Whole Insides Felt Empty And Hollow And Aching.