Maybe each time it passes my lips, I destroy her world a little bit more, like an earthquake loosening large chunks of buildings as it runs its course. It's unintentional, you see, but the resentment has been feeding for years. The old "I didn't ask to be here" -- well just where am I? Where to go? I haven't a clue. She chimes in, as if going for a checkmate, "Oh, you just have it so hard..."; as the sarcasm quickly puts the willingness of a civilized dispute to rest. I don't know if it's at all normal to have not a care in the world about the future, or if it's those who make you think it's abnormal because they themselves cannot be carefree about the future, but secretly aspire to.
Nowhere to go
2:28 p.m.//01.28.05
Mood: Uncertain
End of the world: 2012
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