the solitude that death creates allows for a deep dissection of the heart.
allows for one to make a cast of the skin, and set it aside for other use.
or better, let it rest on their shrine in tribute and remembrance of the self.
how she died. how we loved her.
a note on reality
it runs concurrently with tragedy
and fantasythere is one dream state in which all things reside
The truth is that my heart belongs to me. It beats for me and will die in the darkness of my chest. There is nothing else to know.
