There is something eerily gorgeous in how rain will continue to flood the world with the smell of wet concrete sidewalks long after our lives stop echoing along the surfaces of this planet. There is a pleasure in realizing that nothing is forever, nothing permanent. Every painting, every piece of art will rot away, and all that Van Gogh left behind for millions of people to wonder how anyone who carried so much torment inside themselves could paint things so electrically bright and humming with happiness will become ashes with no-one left to sift through. All of the pianos and violins, the crucibles of symphonies that bled emotion over the audiences they steadily played for will have no more idle hands to hover over their strings and keys waiting in silence for whatever next there was to play. The Sun will eventually engulf the Earth and all of the hydrogen will be burned out by the ocean of stars above us, leaving behind faded islands of embers. All of the atoms which made everything we ever were and loved will become lost among the wreckage of the Universe.
[ bericht aangepast op 13 okt 2015 - 10:02 ]
I hope you drown in all the cum you fucking swallow, to get yourself to the top.