And if you could just smell hard enough, you'd feel the breath of me brushing up against your nose hairs, then tumbling down through your trachea. Hoping to reach for your heart. A race. A marathon. It would always be. Each body stretching their hands and fingers, reaching out for you. For your heart. Each and every single one of them. Of me. Me, and no one else.

If you could look hard enough, smell hard enough, feel hard enough. You'd know, even more, than anyone and everyone else in this world, how much all these are nothing but a thing of the past. A bunch of lies.

And right now, I'm still nobody but a living thing. Who spends her days doing nothing, but reminiscing. I'm no better than what I was before. Yeah, baby. No better. So what's the use of writing so much, to no one here? Which is really, to you? For you? Because it doesn't help me in any way. What's the use of making everything up, when nothing was ever real? What's the use of even thinking and feeling this way? When nothing's going nowhere. When it's all going to end. When everything, really is nothing.