halfjack

so is this where it all comes apart? where threadbare becomes tatters? what seemed worn and weathered sure, but comfortable and favored above all else, is overcome by entropic designs and the fabric, the fabric of space and time and self and what we percieve as the true prize of life, possible true love, tears and the sound, well, the sound of the tearing is all we can hear. it is never as sudden as one thinks. someone has been pulling strands since the beginning. but when it comes apart, it is like the end of the world. everything seems like a myth. gotterdammerung is in the sky and in the ground and in the faces of everyone you walk past. especially those holding hands with pretty people. and if it seems dramatic it's simply because that's what it is. drama. of gods, of humans, of the strings between everything. constantly being cut and tied. and it gets so loud that you can't help but want to just grab it back, seize it in your hands, and tear it to shreds yourself.
but instead you don't. you just wait. for the last time you wait. and hold your ears. you cover the holes and the tears and gather the strands and wait in the dark unable to tell if you're waring anything at all.







damn i get so emo sometimes. stab stab rip stab