there is no greater truth than this: all that has ever lived will die.
in the face of this apocalyptic truth, this armageddon meteor sized intrusion into the comparative bucolic, how do you get out of bed in the morning?
how do you not shit yourself in mortal terror?
god, but it’s chaos out there. our pale blue marble sailing through the infinite emptiness. more dark matter than you can shake a stick at. with any luck the distant descendants of those wrinkly old surfers you laughed at when you were a teenager will be surfing dark energy waves in the cosmic ocean.
you put the whole of it in your grasp. a future that feels like loosening gelatin slipping through your fingers and so much faster as you try your best to hold fast. you breathe deep.
it smells like old djarum blacks. you remember them. the way how your head used to spin when you were halfway finished and you had to lie down. how small and weak you felt, defeated by a clove cigarette. the feeling is bitterness; like too much coffee and not enough water.
faith doesn’t do much for the tremor in your hands or the dizzy blurry world at the corner of your eyes. it’s time to sleep. it’s time to sleep.