Rain on me.
Soak me in the emotional turmoil of the gone.
Make me fight for breath.
And I will fight like a fucking hailstorm of fire.
Kill me with your memories.
Destroy me with smiles.
Pine for death only to show that you have lived.
Life like a meltdown, like a shark attack, like a flood.
Be reckless in your love.
Leave a trail of blood.
Let the wind carry the smell of rot in it.
It will settle somewhere in the moist morning.
Somebody will smell it as it falls on them, tears.
And they will share the turmoil for a swift moment.
Money is the single, most overrated thing in the history of human existence. It’s like sex with no orgasm. (Which I suppose is why women seem to be attracted to it.)