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.