15 October 2009


I listen to oblivion. The sound      it makes      is a slow rush.

The world won't end with fireworks, with sparklers, with screaming, fire in our hair. No,

the world will go quietly, the ozone a pillow
over its face.

Tears may stream down our faces, but fear will be the knot in our
stomach, not the knife in our heart.

I listen to oblivion. The sound it makes      is a slow rush. We melt away.

We melt away.

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