A bottomless well that manages to drown you anyway. Atoms drift in clouds of aimless wanderlust, stars spark with the grace of fireflies, galaxies bloom and rot away like bruised fruit. Call it planned; divine even...It's easier to pretend destruction means something. I call it "The Story". There is a comfort to the idea there's a plot sewn deep in the chaos. Forgive me if I sound tired. Time doesn't play fair with me. A dozen lifetimes without a hand to defend oneself will do that. I've been telling this story longer than I've been alive, the moments repeat, wash over me, crash into me, still, I'm not sure if I'm the one remembering it, or if its remembering me.