Mood: indifferent A digital recording told me you died, which was blessed with irony, seeing as how I'd never felt so alive. But it took a wicked turn, and memories of you asking me if I'll cry when you die, stabbed at me; taunting me to lose all composure I felt I had from trying blatantly to ignore the reality of it all. And with each replay of the same memory, your face darkened and you became more and more bitter in your tone. I silently demanded for you to stop, which then made me wonder if you ever knew how often I went home crying, picturing the sad news come over the wire that you were dead. The time felt so far away when you asked me, like it was frighteningly absurd, but I thought about it nonetheless. And I remember you'd sit on the couch with your legs up, singing Nobody Loves You When You're Old and Grey and I'd always tell you that I'd always love you, or at least I wanted to. But all I can picture is worms eating your body, and I'm terrorized. You were the first in this grotesque experiment where I disconnect before the tragedy. The internal battle field of guilt seems to be a quiet one, almost alarmingly so. I'm caught up on questioning how wrong it is to sidestep a catastrophic and depressive trigger at the expense of someone's feelings. I can't be that selfless. I am a disease to this world, and the cure is like a door, a single door, and it's locked tight. So I have no choice but to continue and infest, sometimes willingly, sometimes not.
The time has come, my little ones, to think of other things
10:05 a.m.//11.27.06
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