After Everyone You Bled With Dies, The Insides Of Your Name Will Be Scraped Out And Burned.
You feel like a child, standing on that staircase, everyone's eyes on you.
You feel like the calm before the storm, the stillness, the tension in the air.
Behind you there are your friends who are all going to die for the crime of being desperate.
These people who aren't in heaven yet, the comfortable will say they died of suicide, of misadventure, of overdose, the list goes on. But you know the truth, that money is the root of all murder.
In front of you there are good people, and there are also rich people. Rich people who want to hurt you, and rich people who want to hurt you but don't want to take the risk of loving anything associated with you.
You recognize that no amount of outnumbering them will ever let you outrun them.
If this was a story, they would be the monarchs in large castles. If this was a story, you would be the revolutionary whose dream of liberation was snuffed out. But if this was a story, your friends would find your body and sink it into the river where it belonged.
You smile the way you have to smile, and speak the way you have to speak. You need the money, your friends need the money, everyone needs the money.
You are aware, that sometime in the distant future, there is a baby crying. And the baby won't stop crying and won't stop crying and won't stop crying until it gives up hope and swallows the sadness down and chokes on it forever.
This hasn't happened yet. But it will.
And all the people who killed each other in front of ecstatic, apathetic onlookers will look down from heaven and see this baby and not stop crying.
May this country be flooded with lightning.
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