Let’s start this off right- at the end. The end of everything. Not just your own life. Everyone and everything is dead. Fucking gone. This is just a story, so of course your life is still perfect in the sense that it is, but this is the story where when you look up from the pages, there is nothing. Not like the books that had you hooked, oh-dang can’t put it down kind of thing. This is the story where all that is, before it isn’t, is what is here, the words on the pages, the pages in the book, the book in nothingness. Before you opened it, there was everything, but now, there is nothing. So, what will we read about?
Fuck your stories and your morals. Don’t dissect this like a classroom assignment, don’t use it as supporting evidence for your ideas.
Old habits die hard. But entirety dies with a fast, unfinished scream. So fast, the scream can’t even finish itself. It ends so fast, there are no flashbacks, no lights. This isn’t about heaven or faith. Heaven’s gone too. As is hell. This isn’t about trying to shock anyone, to move anyone. There’s no point, because when all of this is over… It’s all over.
His sex was like tequilla. Warming, right? It burned all the way down, and all the way back up, left a putrid flavor in there, but it got the job done.
