Sure, I'll split my brain open for that one pure moment. Call it atonement. I don't really care what you call it. It's ephemeral. I think. One of them fancy fucking things. Like how when you watch the clouds on a still day and you start to freak, like maybe shit is never going to speed up again and it makes you uncomfortable. But you feel the sun graze your arms and you take the plate that is handed to you, though, lord, it's heavy.
I don't know what you want that I haven't given you already. The spotlight is grown tired. I have shown you the fluttered masses of teeming youth, huddled, unrelenting. I've shown you the glint in a steel man's eye, and the lilac in the corner of that one old lady - those eyes just like molasses, and you never could look at those eyes without feeling guilty and loved at the same time.
And I know you want to talk about when she died, but I don't even know how to do that. Literally. I can't even think about it. I stutter in my brain. I watch her dying, shade to pain - God, I hope it wasn't like it looked. Why would I want to talk about that?
Amusing anecdotes from churlish childhood chivalry.
You can watch my brain implode - no one is going to stop me. The trip will not be televised, but it will be broken down into its component parts and endlessly analyzed. Rebuilt in a way that envies tragedy. Lives next to envy. Relentlessly. Senselessly, sensing all that no one says.
But I'm going to keep going. Whether you want to read it or not. Full stop.