what does it take.

What does it take for people to listen?
That everything should implode to have an excuse for feeling. That tangible tragedy should make way for a not so happy voice. A not so fucking happy voice. Telling stories to the dead. As if they could just. Come back. As if nothing mattered more. Than setting some time apart to egotistically indulge our fear of death. The feeling of loss lingers like a stolen wallet, but the fear. Stays on. Forcing ourselves to be alone at night. To revel in the fucking adrenaline rush. Overwhelming lack of oxygen. Of our fear. Of things ending. Nostalgia for everything that could be. And the things that were that had their time and lost it. And a thousand empty words that make no fucking sense. Self erasing self from land, some erasing themselves, and some just washing away like old ink into even older paper. And the perfect social convention of roping off parking spaces for seas of black. Fuck color. Fuck anything particularly useful to remind us that we are alive. We should remember that we die. Not to change the way we go through time and streets and coffee cups. But to wallow in our ridiculous self-importance, ephemeral creation of an incomprehensible ending.