You Might Say That Death Has Relaxed

I Sigh Inside, So Exhausted By These Ugly Questions, But When Did A Monster Ever Deserve Its Privacy?

Here We Are On The Road. We Must Be Going Somewhere.

My "heart". Does That Pitiful Organ Still Represent Anything? It Lies Motionless In My Chest, Pumping No Blood, Serving No Purpose, And Yet My Feelings Still Seem To Originate Inside Its Cold Walls. My Muted Sadness, My Vague Longing, My Rare Flickers Of Joy. They Pool In The Center Of My Chest And Seep Out Of There, Diluted And Faint, But Real.

It Was Fun, But It's Over Now. This Is How Things Go.

You Might Say That Death Has Relaxed Me.