This is the end, my only friend, the end.
What I wrote in this again? What if I began writing. Haphazardly throwing up words and meanings and sentences like they fucking mean things again. Carving what I think of the world on the internet. For them to never, ever wash away. I find my old worlds from ten years ago, still floating around. And I think, "Wow. That was good for what it was." That was ten years ago?
That was ten years ago. This is what it's like to age.
That was ten years ago. This is what it's like to age.