TheInfiniteCrossroad

I feel like I'm falling. I feel the wind scraping across my ears and the scorching sensation of dread in my stomach, and I feel water flowing past my fingertips like the reality that oh-so-easily passes my vision. I can't breathe either, but I like it that way. The sun is blinding. I can feel the buildings weaving around me and the moon waiting to push past, but no, everything's moving too quickly. I feel lightheaded. I must get out. I must leave. How do you escape when you're falling? I'd like to know. But I guess... All that matters is when you finally hit the concrete. I wonder, does every second count? I'm not quite sure. I sup

She has beautiful eyes. Her eyes, so sharp, and flawless, and perfect; the eyes that she keeps shielding... She's always liked the dark. She wouldn't mind the uninviting aura it would give off, wouldn't mind the unexpected things that made their home there that would (if possible) send unpleasant shivers up and down her spine. It always baffled me, why she would never replace her burnt-out light bulb in her room, or why her deep, dark irises stayed a dead shade in the light, whether it was from the sunlight or a spark in a fluorescent light bulb. The fact that her eyes hardly ever saw perfection also disturbs me. Not literal perfection, b

I can tell you now, That there has never been such  A great amount of  Uselessness in my lungs as there is now, Because every intake of air  Claws at my chest and Pricks at my eyes, Like there had never been any greater misfortune Than being sucked in by myself.  I can tell you now that  Your words can  Never be anything more than  A placebo for  What can never be achieved.  I can't tell you, however, When our time here will be Terminated, or how long The grief In my eyes shall linger, or  Why I even lay here, conscious  But empty.  But these fragments Will Kee