is it so obvious I fear pity
The Little Mermaid
The ocean waves to the land from beyond the sand dunes
Many a child wave(s) back, in faith that the sea is kind
Whilst sailors, pirates, and fisherman are aroused by its scent of doom
But few a sailing man trust that under surface live people they might find
For not all people have legs and not all with legs are alike
Dive down and deep for as above so below
And lo and behold
A city of salt and gold
No one knows how old
And so, it is just a legend
Or so they’ve convinced their friends
But let me be the first one
To tell you the worst ones
Are not the sharks or eels
But those who march along on heels
With no taste for how it feels
The beach protects the above from the below
The reason why no one knows
And so, the story goes
She was wronged
But that’s where they’re wrong
For beasts will fight before long
And for long
But you will never hear the song
Of the victor
In joy for
They can’t praise a war
With naught a survivor
She had finally made up her small, stubborn mind. She was to breach the boundary that stood for generations. She was to go into a world unseen by her contemporaries – despite her father’s forewarnings. Despite her limitations.
“They preach lies and worship falsehoods. Those things from the otherworld have not a reason to bear such similar visages to us even if they are all similar in the most aesthetically displeasing ways. Why then seek us out? Should I not conclude that mayhaps it is upon us – as they all fail to match our wit and physical prowess – to grace them with my own presence so that they might finally achieve whatever goal it is that they are all too pathetic to reach?”
Pockets of air hurriedly fled from her in her sudden movement, her body folding and twisting around itself – kicking and turning around to launch her body up into the air – breaking the skin of the surface for her delicate, glittering skin to be warmly greeted by light far brighter than her eyes could shine. Holding her flat face to the sky, she sat suspended as two atmospheres wrapped around her body, gripping and caressing her with the care of a new mother. And so, her heart wrote its resolve in freezing blood – she was but a god writing the prayer to be chorused back to her centuries after she had tired of this realm and moved on to the next, as she was sure all the other gods had done – the otherworld was to sacrifice its love to her as the warm light did.
She decided to begin her journey once the light faded away and the warmth with it – she was to follow it. She fancied herself wiser than her father, for she knew the warmth did not die when it fell. It rose only for her of course and it has fallen for her as well, beckoning her to the edge of the surface… for that was certainly where the otherworld would lie. Her father demanded proof again and again. What was she to say? She could not speak the way her family could. They told her it was by fault of a witch and a curse an unknown number [of] ages old. Little did they know it was truly a blessing – she only spoke how the light spoke for the light was a god as she. And if the otherworld worshipped the light as much as she had determined it would, then why would they not love her if not two times as much?
The Second Bird
I don't have a fantasy. I have many. And they float around my mind -- my skull is overflowing. My dreams are pushing my eyes. They wish to render me blind or comatose. To hold me down in my subconscious. So many hands and they're all mine. Begging me to say -- trying to save me or end me. I can't wake up some mornings. I mean it. Dreams in dreams in dreams. Inception. And they spill over into my reality. And trap me. I wake up with tears in my eyes or a scream in my throat and there's always pain. Some sort of heartbreak I cannot remember. It plagues me. They all do. The ghosts of friends and lovers past. Opportunities wasted.
Some are sweet though. Absolutely blissful. And they always end. I never want to revisit them -- I won't be able to escape again. But to have my memories. To smile the way that doppelganger does. To finally live a life outside of this cave. To no longer be some sort of Medusa. I cannot hold my eyes to yours or anyone's for long. Not for fear of your pain, but of mine. Imagine - a curse that turns the cursed to stone should they look you in the eye. Pitiful, that life must be. Glory be that curses are fiction. Save that they are not. Curses are everywhere. I would gladly wager my waking life that you too are cursed. Yes, you. Mine is far from an uncommon affliction. That might make worse, truly. To know so many share this curse and be too far gone -- too deteriorated -- to see beyond my edition but still only taste guilt. My degree of this plague. A plague does not sum it up quite right, no. A sort of abscess. A plague of an excess, even. Look how it kills. So normal. You have it too. Perhaps not in such a great degree. Or maybe you have the most.
Look at yourself. My shortness. My vagueness. Yes, I am talking to you. Are you hot yet? Sweating? Is your heart racing? Has hell frozen down your spine? Are you tense? I sure hope you are. If you aren't, I most certainly have done something wrong. But when is that not the case... I hope you're in your head. And then you will see. For sure. Just sit. Look through the windows -- see how distant everything is even though you are physically at the center of it all -- look through the mess on the floor. Old photos, that song you never did manage to learn the name of, keys to doors you mean to explore. Explore with me. Let me take you on a tour of this place. I see you. I do indeed. But stop looking around. You look plain silly. I cannot actually see you. Sometimes, I'm convinced I can't actually see. But no, I can today and you are just a cloud. A fog that only mildly resembles a person. I could reach out for you and you would only feel desperation. Humour me then, manifest - if you will - a hand in yours. A cold, almost dead hand. Don't worry, I'm not quite a ghost yet. Wrap your fingers around my hand. My skin is soft, only slightly dry. I'm very clean, don't you mind. Now follow me -- I want to show you my head.
Please, ignore the mess. Walk around, walk through, or walk on those over there. I don't mind. I suppose it is something of a fire hazard in here; I do apologize, I have been up here a lot more than usual recently. Look out for pins and wet paint. I'm afraid I had a bit of an episode in here and I just haven't gotten to cleaning after myself. Tis alright though, you can't get hurt here. I made sure of it. Despite my jokes, I am not harmless and can even pose a threat to you. So, whatever you do, just don't... just don't... please just... I forgot what you must avoid. Perhaps I'm not that dangerous then. How curious. Anyway, follow me, if you please. There's a room you might appreciate. I do hope you enjoy music -- this room is full of it. -- You seem surprised. Of course it's full of music. You can swim in it, drink it up, walk on it, hold it, even just smell it. Here, drink this. Oh, this? The glass didn't come from anywhere, I just summoned it for you. Now sip. It's one of my favourite songs. There's a mild aftertaste. That's okay. You might find it bitter. Maybe salty. I assure you it's not seawater. That's just tears. Oh, I'm not certain if they're mine or the singer's. Sorry, I forgot to warn you. It will burn going down. That's the instrumental -- there's a swell of anger but you'll find it settles to a fuzzy sort of warmth. See? You don't understand why you're here though, do you? I anticipated that. It seems so nice here, doesn't it? Tell me, are you warm or are you cold? Right, of course you're warm. Because of the song. Right then, let's go cool you down. I've got a room I ought to show you anyhow. Two birds, one stone. I wonder if people used to hunt birds with stones. Slings and stones, I mean. Terrifying accuracy. Oh here we are. It usually does not take that long to get here. Strange. That hasn't happened in ages. Oh well. In we go. Keeping the door open for too long will um let the cool air escape. Like a fridge in a power outage. Exactly! That is why the lights are off. Hm? Oh there aren't any lights in here. It's just white. Like - Like a proper icebox. Huh, I suppose that is why I'm always so cold. I'm not in here very often... not technically. Oh... oh no. Actually, it's nothing wrong. It's just the second bird. Oh bugger, even I didn't expect an actual bird. I'm not certain, I doubt it's not a real bird. It's a beast of my mind -- I... I made that. Oh I can't just unmake it. I can only forget about it or lock it in here but I've gone and and... The door. I've done it again. I only meant some of this. This is utterly-- I am sincerely sorry. It's about to get very loud and even colder. I wish I could get you out but I- it just- just- oh please just stop. No, not you. Yes. Please. Oh god. Sorry, sorry, sorry. What? I can't hear you. You can't hear that? You can't?? God, I failed. I failed. Shut up, I know I know I know. You need to wake up. Right now. Open your eyes, let go of my hand please. Please, you won't be able to leave. I... The world... My mind... it's turning to stone again. I'm so so very sorry. I really did- do... I do want to share this place with you but maybe I don't? I didn't mean to lie. I'm so very sorry, but only really? You need to leave. Go. Please... come back. Or don't. Just don't.
Hands Are Underrated
My hands... they almost have a mind of their own.
So uncoordinated with my thoughts.
So... *in touch*... with my most secret of needs.
And apparently, I need yours.
Your hands. It's cold out but the air --
The air fears you.
You do have strong hands. Large hands. Warm hands.
Do you feel that? My fingers -- my frozen fingers interlacing with yours.
Please feel me. That's what hands are for. And all my hands want now.
To feel your hands. Every vein, every scar and crease, every callous, every heart beat-
I can feel your heart beat in your hands. You can feel mine in mine.
It's as though we're offering up our hearts to each other --
I'm putting my life in your hands. Your hands.
They're my vault. Safe and secure. Strong, powerful, soft, loving.
Warm. Soft. Worn. Beautiful.
Have you ever watched your hands? How they move, how they act with mine?
Have you noticed how well they fit, how well they hold me? I wish you would.
You're so soft. So gentle.
And your work. Your art. Your hands worship your craft. And I want to worship your hands.
Look at how they move. Even in the cold. Every movement is calculated, so precise, so refined, and so free.
And they hold your heart. Our hearts.
Hold my hands again.
I need your warmth. Your hearth. Your heart.
Her Favourite Me
When she shot me down, I apologised for flying in her sky. And I'd soar through her sky forever if she'd look at me like that everytime I fall at her feet.
Not to be dramatic, but the way she looks at me makes me feel like the lead in a beautiful tragedy. And she looks like the goddess the tragedy is dedicated to.
Her tears, stars forbid they are shed, could heal my scars if she'd give my skin the chance. Impossible to believe I can love the rain any more than now.
She remembered that afternoon - the moment that will be the cover of my high school memories - in the pouring wet. And we couldn't stop laughing.
If I think hard enough, I can still hear it. The laughter and the rain. Her voice. But I don't want that. I want to earn her affection as she so effortlessly did mine.
Maybe it is just a crush or a phase. Maybe I am feeding the stereotype but it was hungry. And it hurts no one but me if I pine from a distance -- but there isn't enough.
She was so close to me today. And that day in the rain. And that other day. And all of those other days I see in my mind's eye. But they're nothing more.
They're just days. Moments in days she's likely forgotten. And that's alright. What right have I to want her to remember how I looked at her when I fell at her feet.
He rested his chin in the calloused palm of his hand, absentmindedly rubbing the corner of his mouth with his thumb as he stared off into the world outside of the car and the blur that constituted trees of autumn. The radio was faint, not just to him but to the driver of the vehicle as well, the notes of a popular song barely heard above the hum of the engine and otherwise thick silence. It went on like this for quite a while, time worthless as of then, seconds and hours had long since been as regarded as pennies were once upon a time: present but useless.
She cleared her throat as she pulled into the driveway of their house. At only two stories high and one thousand square feet, the residence proved more than enough for the newly engaged couple with two bedrooms and two and a half baths. The two exited the sedan in unison, the doors shutting mere seconds within each other. They were yet to have breathed a word to each other, both exhausted from meeting with the in-laws to be. Instead of retreating to their shared bed to rest, they kicked off their shoes, leaving them strewn about, and headed in separate directions. The sir, Jason, making his way to the kitchen to fetch a snack, was in dire need of a sugary refreshment to boost his energy. His lady counterpart and better-half, Lindsay, thought it better to lay down on a love-seat in the living room to watch television and allow herself to zone out.
An unknown amount of time slipped away, presumably hours, and the only one awake was Jason with a shy smile on his face born from listening to his fiancee's light snoring. Unfortunately, that smile vanished in simple moments as his eyes and ears refocused on the television which had begun playing the news. He already knew it had to be serious if it dared to interrupt the cartoons he had started to watch after Lindsay slipped away to the land in her dreams. Without looking at his hand, he grabbed the remote to turn up the volume enough for him to hear the words of the anchorperson, not particular concerned about waking a certain heavy-sleeper.
"After undergoing its final stages of testing, the new drug by the name of Thnisimotita, which is the actual Greek word for 'mortality', has been released. After death was eradicated via evolution over two millennia ago, some find it odd to go back in time, so to speak, and others have tried to shut down the project altogether with no success. The scientists behind this drug have chemically engineered it for its effects to last only 24 hours. Details of testing and development have not yet been released and the creators do not believe they ever will be, saying quote: 'The science behind this is not to be understood through explanation but, rather, experience. After all, is that not how we all as humans live?' When asked what their motivation for making the drug 'TNM' or 'Tita', as they have begged to dub it, neither professional offered a comment. The lack of response has the skeptical public drawing harsh conclusions, assuming the pair are conducting experiments on the entire human race. Another population, today's youths, are more than eager to purchase this drug, the first available batch selling out from pharmaceutical distributors within hours of it being put on the market."
Jason's hand flew to his mouth, paralyzed with shock. He was as still as the air on a night before a summer storm and he skin went just as cold. Stretching her legs out, Lindsay kicked her fiance's thigh as she woke up, eyes halfway open and unfocused. She adjusted herself so that she was resting on her elbows and forearms when she peered up at Jason.
"What's up?" Muttered Lindsay, failing to grasp his attention. So she kicked him harder, on purpose this time, to which he reacted by jumping. They looked each other dead in the eyes, she seeming far more unapologetic than he, not that he knew why he should have been sorry.
"What was that for?" He gestured his hands dramatically at nothing in particular. She blinked at him once then grinned, trying to come off sheepish but not truly doing her best at selling it.
"I was wondering what's wrong. You look like you just saw a unicorn." The words took a few seconds for him to process, then he shook his head, turning to face Lindsay with wide eyes.
"You did it... Your drug, it's on the news." She raised an eyebrow in disbelief, never one to believe good news. Jason, knowing her all too well, nodded his head eagerly. "It sold out already." Her eyes bugged, going still in shock, certain she was still asleep and that her love had put her into bed.
About what would be a week later, Jason found himself wearing a round into the living room shag, pacing to waste pent up energy and wringing his hands with worry as he stressed unnecessarily, or so he hoped. Hours prior, he was in standing in front of nine pairs of adolescent eyes, each set focused away from him, all but one student that was. His eyes were wide and prying, a bright pain of anticipation dancing behind them as he waited. Waited for an answer Jason could not provide to a question that had been posed too many times to him already, an answer he knew he did not want to know because he could not bear to learn it. So he brushed off the inquiry as irrelevant to the class, the class that was fifteen students short due to "early vacations" and "family matters".
Easily startled, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the house door open. It was just Lindsay coming home from the lab, her hair threatening to fall to her shoulders from the dangerously loose bun she wore along with a scowl. Her shoulders were tenser than a rubber band stretched to its limit and then some. With hands balled in fists, she stormed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door behind herself, drawing her fiance's attention. Earlier that the day, her partner suggested shutting down the operation and recalling the drug. When she asked him why they would do that, he simply turned on the news which was overflowing with reports and recordings of social media influencers performing impressively outrageous stunts after taking varying doses of TNM. As a mild surprise to her, many of the participants proved to lack the skill or foreknowledge to survive the actions. But to her, it was simply bound to happen because there was [a great lack of common sense in society's youths -- and just society as a whole, with time and death virtually obsolete. Death was just a "thing of the past", something taught in history classes at secondary schools and forgotten about shortly thereafter.
Lindsay liked to think herself considerably humble for a scientist in this day and age, but she did her race a great favour. She was teaching them a lesson. And not in a villainous style -- though it may not have been perfectly ethical -- so how could Claude in his right mind want to end the operation? It was the perfect end to perfection, not that she believed the world was perfect. Sure, war was no longer fought by thousands of people and depression was seen as "done away with", but Mother Nature has refused to yield to the hands of humanity's greatest minds. What would perfection be if not true superiority to and control of the Earth and its nature? We conquered our nature to die, to fall ill -- and it was not enough. "So let us fall back in time." That was her rebuttal to her partner and coworker of an unknown many years. "Let us start from the very beginning so we can regrow in another, in a better direction. So that we may conquer Earth."
A soft knock on the bedroom door was a harrowing call back to reality. She wasn't ready to return. And Jason could sense it. He opened the door gently, cooing his beloved's name as a parent their child's. But his call fell on selectively deaf ears -- Lindsay had withdrawn so far into herself, she didn't fell the pinch of her desperate decision in her thigh. All she saw was the ceiling erasing itself. "I... will... I will fall back in ti-time. I am Mother Nature."]
*The section within  is my rushed ending to this short story. I had totally forgotten about it, so yeah.*
Emotions and Sensations
She crept away into a dark corner, laughter falling from her lips thick as honey and as false as refined sugar, her nails nowhere to be seen for they were digging into her hated skin. Music played in her head, forcing a smile to tug at the corners of her lips, still laughing a song of melodious irony. Another hook buried itself in her spine, forcing her to curve inhumanly before dragging her writhing body into the core of the shadows. And she cries, the blackest tears rolling from the outside corners of her eyes to oblivion. These tears were birthed not from pain, not sadness, not misery, not anger, nor anguish. Rather, the ink was the love child of only hate. Hate that festered in her for no other reason than to grow to kill. Killing her empathy, tears that formed in her stung when she hold them, gritting her teeth and digging her nails into her palms or whatever part of her body that wasn't already bleeding, reopening scars and tearing into old wounds, starved for the feeling of pain, her addiction that drove her so. Keeping her awake and pushing over the edge, holding her head under the water. The bubbles go higher and higher, becoming fewer and fewer, and relief sets in. Death at last. But Death laughs, spitting in her face for not even he could tolerate such a face or want such a soul. A soul too bad to be pure and too good to be defiled. A conundrum made from indecisiveness and sloth, a sin who knew her all too well along with many others. She knew all of them. She slept with each one at the foot of her bed, chained to the floor, fighting to leave but no, she was too lonely, too scared to face the world alone, to try to live a life worth living. So she never tried more than what she knew, what she was frightened of. A terrible life and fate to have.
Prologue: Meet the Cast Through the Curtain
Prologue: Meet the Cast Through the Curtain [Part 1 of 3]
“I... I can’t remember anything...”
For a bit, there was a sort of silence. The sort of silence that ignored the hum of consistent conversations held in whispers. After that bit, though, he could hear something resembling a “pit” and a “pat” hurrying towards him and his spotty little grey & blue world. “S-Say that aga- again, please.”
“I can’t remember anything?”
“Not a thing?”
He shook his head once, tentatively. The room was mainly large, dark clouds that danced at every “beep”. Did she not see the clouds?
“Ah, here. Drink this,” the lady instructed with a kind voice, handing him a small gauntlet with cool water. “I’ll be right back.”
Well, they were less like clouds and more like... What exactly were they more like? Spots. Holes, even. Yes, he saw writhing holes in the air. They would not keep still and they kept obstructing his view. He wished them - commanded them, rather - to vanish, but it was not until he averted his eyes and blinked a few times that they began to shrivel up and shrink, letting him see everything around him for the first time. That was also when the lady returned. Now that he could see clearly, he could see that she was donning a white coat. She must have been a physician. And she was not alone. Not to say that the two people accompanying her were also physicians. They were just there and they were all - the doctor included - looking at him. Was there something the matter with him? Did he do something wrong? Perhaps he looked strange to them.
“Hi there.” One of the new people waved at him. This was another woman. She wore a smile. It was supposed to be genuine, yet it hid hesitance behind its warmth. He was not awfully sure why, but he felt that he was supposed to trust her despite her holding back - something about that warmth was so magnetic, it pulled him in maybe too easily - probably due to his lack of better judgement, and so he mirrored her gesture somewhat lazily. He would have been more enthusiastic had he not somehow felt like a threat to the other occupants of the beeping room. He remained silent, not speaking aloud to the newcomers as he was frightened that the holes would return and take far longer to leave than before.
The other person was a man. He was not smiling. He did not waste time bothering to try to hide his mistrust in the boy. The boy? Why, did you expect a grown man? No? Maybe? Well, that no longer matters. Oh geez, it seems I have lost my spot. Where was I? Oh, yes, the man did not trust the boy. Neither one of them could say why even if they knew. It was simply a matter of intuition. There was something wrong about the boy. Something completely and utterly too right. The boy was presenting himself as a blank slate. Regardless of whether it was on purpose or not, the man found it against his own nature to believe the best of a boy who could not remember a thing. This man was a man of the world. Street-smart and business smart - in his eyes, the only thing that could always be trusted was his gut. So, what did his gut have to say about this?
"Now, sure, the kid may've been in a tragic accident, but look at him. Just look. There ain't a scratch on his skin. No cuts, no bumps, no bruises. Nada. He ain't normal. Hell, he ain't natural. Well, at least, his body isn't. But his memory? His memory is busted beyond repair. No one - and I mean no one - hits their head hard enough to wipe their whole memory without breakin' skin. That's never happened in the history of ever. It's a miracle he even said a word at all. So, yeah, sure, he may be a kid, but kids break. That? That's no kid. No memory? No broken bones? That can't be trusted. If you ask me, you'd be better off takin' him in - make an ally of whatever the hell that kid is. Learn him. Study him. We can't trust him, but he can - and will - trust anybody and everybody that treats him good."
The man stepped forward, face illegible, and offered his hand to the boy. Of course, the boy did not take it up, opting to, instead, look down at it, then back up at the man. This failed to faze the latter, though, as he proceeded to introduce himself, but not before making his position clear. He was a man made to lead. He only spoke in commands and everyone in his world was supposed to understand – if they could not, they were going to learn how. “Alright, kid, lift your hand – the other one – and grab mine. Yeah, like that. Now shake – no, not your head. Like this. Good. Squeeze my hand. Harder. It won’t break, trust me. Up. Other way. You can’t possibly be this stupid. Up, down, up, down. Like so. Not so fast. Better. That’ll do for now. D’Angelo. That’s my name. Do you have a name, kid?”
The kid uttered not a single word, mind freezing as his hand slipped from D’Angelo’s. He could not recall having a name. As far as he knew, “Kid” was his name. “Is... Is ‘Kid’ not my... my name?”
“Oh god, he is that stupid.”
“Charles!” The smiling woman had been conversing with the doctor in hushed words, trying to learn what there was to learn about the boy, which was not a lot.
Alright, so there was one person Mister D’Angelo answered to and obeyed. Who could possibly be so powerful that they would bring such a mighty businessman to his knees at their very word? Why, his beloved wife, Amelia Claire. He would never admit it to anybody, not even his darling, but he was at her beck and call. That her wish was his command – and her wish was for him to shut up. And, so, he did. He stepped back, eyes trained on the kid whose eyes were blankly studying the light taupe, no, beige hospital blanket that concealed his legs. The kid whose eyes wandered up to none other than Amelia Claire at the sound of her voice. Her voice should have been irritatingly nasal. It should have been unbearably high-pitched. But it was a stubborn voice, like the speaker, turning should-haves into lesser alternatives. So, like the speaker, the voice was sweet and lovely – it dripped with a French-Creole drawl and held a dusting of Queen Elizabeth’s accent. It should have sounded fairly odd, at the least; it sounded like a harp-strung lullaby being played for an infant on the brink of slumber.
“Never mind him, sweetheart. It’ll come to you. And, if for some reason it doesn’t, you and I can come up with one just right for your personality.”
I'm not ready to die, but I'm not ready to live.
I'm too scared to die, but I'm too scared to live.
You don’t know where I am. You don’t even know if I am alive. But that’s okay, because I don’t know if you’re dead. Of all the people to worry about, to let my mind retreat to. Of all the souls, hearts, and minds that I have selfishly meddled with… I always come back to you. Fuck. I hate that I forgot how to spell your name, if it’s “e and a” or “e and e”. And I’ll never know the correct way again since I will never speak to you again. Can you believe it’s been almost a year since we last heard each other’s voices? Since we last let our words embrace the other and give pleasure that we will never experience the equivalent of in the real world? I hate it. I want so desperately to hate you. On my darkest nights, I wished I never met you. That what ever it was that I felt for you never infected me. I can still feel it. I remember that pain. That bliss. Don’t you remember it too? I was too young. Now, a year later, I’m too old. I am too old for love. It sickens me how much it hurts, how true it felt with you. And I lied to you. For two years. I was a crime in your world as much as you were in mine. But you didn’t seem to care. Neither did I as talking to you was the same as stepping through the wardrobe. Imagine if we met. If we touched. I think about the nights we spent together. Hours upon hours of passion that will never amount to anything more than words on screens. I looked for you this past summer. I tried to dream about you. I cried about you. I hated myself because of you. You were my happiness, it turns out. And I despised myself for pushing you away, making you leave, making you cry. I remember that time you told me I made you cry. A year later, I sometimes wonder if it was a lie because you lied to me more than I did you. But I can’t believe that you would lie about something so unnecessary to be lied about. The times my heart ached and my head hurt and I could not sleep and I cried until I passed out just to wake up with the puffiest eyes. That was usually because of you. And I really don’t want to admit that. Because nothing - no person - should ever make me cry, make me hurt like that. No one. But you did. Because I loved you. I don’t love you anymore. At least, not the way I used to. I love you like a memory of an ancient autumn day that I will never live again. I love you like one of the best lessons I have ever learned or the truest quote that has ever graced my ears. I learned what I had to from you and now I am older and - dare I say - wiser as well. Thank you for being my best.
*This has nothing to do with the day I had, but it brings tears to my eyes all the same. Plus, I had this lying around on a platform that wouldn't appreciate it and figured it would be a waste of emotion-vomit to leave it there.* [Written on mobile.]