Being living is OKAY. Day-to-day breaths are measured in small towns, in big cities, in extraordinary deserts, in clusters of the near-dead and dying. So she (Natalia I think I mean) will go off, shoulders stooped, carrying on bag for the things she owns and one bag for the things she's bought, looking down the tunnel of the street, the buildings blending together and the snow in the roads, the thick ice in shattered pieces on the sidewalk.
Come on, Dear Lord, please help me get by. I can either chose to face the hate, and overcome it and gloriously victoriously come out much stronger or I can wipe my brain, and I can hold apathy like a bitter cyanide capsule under my tongue (harmless now though; bitter but harmless - for now - ) and be maybe a little okay. Being living little is all OKAY.
Like Mr. Sufjan Stevens, I'M NOT FUCKING AROUND. I really do want to be well.
Characters come and characters do not go so please live on, little phosphorescence; I need you very much.
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