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,

How about a disease to fall in love with everything I see? 


How about the heaven that is stored in your eyes. 


How about the things I have written of. Do they mean as much to you as they do to me. 


Overstayed have I my welcome. What a goodbye shall I have. with my journey unfinished, barely even started. I will decide if I have regret later.


The Last Chapter