Why do we count down from ten? Why not one-hundred? Hell, a billion. Just give me more time. Please.
2014. New year. This. That. Hit the gym. This. That. New start. New you. This. That. This. Going through paces. I’ve stopped keeping track of days and weeks. I’ve begun keeping time with minutes and hours. Keeping time with heartbeats. This that. This that. But, you see, this isn’t a 24-hour cycle. This is a god damn countdown.
You’re born at ten. You learn to walk at nine. You learn to speak at eight. You go to school at seven. Fall in love at six. Fall out of it at five. Pretend to care at four. Stop pretending at three. Or maybe you do. Two. I’ll never know now. One. Say goodbye. This, that. Or don’t, you know, that’s cool too I guess.
I have news. This. That. Hotel room. This. That. Heart attack. This, that. Found him. This that.
I know you might have been there at one point but it’s as if you never were. More than ten years ago I promised myself I’d never be like you. Now I’m just trying to convince myself that you weren’t that bad. Funny how life works like that. Or, you know, the opposite.
Now there’s nothing left. Nothing to salvage. And I don’t care. You didn’t, right? I don’t care. Really, I don’t. It’s cool. I don’t.
This that. This that. This that. This that. Fucking care about me. This that. Too late. This that.