Kill, kill

Long ago or yesterday, I had written you an epitaph. If I had been wiser, or as cynical and disillusioned as I thought I was, that would laid you to rest. It would have been beautiful and felt appropriate. But then you wouldn't have been able to do it yourself. Isn't it lovely how you fulfill the prophecies that I secretly made?
Lyrics bring emptiness, and I carry on with a longing that endures despite starvation. If asphyxiation was a feeling, this would be the opposite.