I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

I find this process so blood-ridden, alive or dead, reminding myself I cannot continue. I know why, I know fucking why. again I glance at this, this idea, and ponder killing it. I am terrified, me and all these empty coffins. 


I cannot remember you, how do I know you're real. 


Always tellingly dead, living to say so. 


Romance with a corpse, too close to meet when it would matter. You were there the day before me and will be there the day after I go. 


Lest the road is taken, find the black you emerged from drip it back into your body and remember what it is to lose it. 


Pity loves greed. Death, the only purpose life runs to. 


Enjoy the fall. You can trust a name someone has given themself. there is no one other there to rename, taste, or to see it. In love with the idea of love, the lovely idea that living is two, the first, life, and the second, a promise of that life against the second. 


This light at the end of the tunnel passed down through generations of generations. An idea of utopia passed down as a vanishing vision. 


Alone with...