InsaneJournal

And somewhere, in the tethers of our bones where we hear weaknesses cried out and then anon, they curl and hide. Where marrow slipped away and empty places lie, they sit and watch as dead things grow and curl and blacken, fall to ash. Cockroaches in the desert, with no homes but deepening bones. Fear, grief, impotent violence. Around and around, snapping at their tails, stupid, blind things with white eyes and blank faces. Yet they outlive all else that ever mattered to us, once.

((Eric's deathday anniversary is coming up and he is, therefor, sad and waxing poetical.))