Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or...
This is where we are now.
There is only nihil left. All cups are empty. If there only was a fucking lightswitch in this darkness.
I remember stars.
There was so much light. Bodys touching, minds melting and fusing. It is all so dim now. All that remains is indifference.
I sit beside. You. You are somewhere. Elsewhere.