My life has already been written in dirt, engraved in earth. Memories inspire nostalgia, inspire decomposition, inspire death. Death is only meaningful after life, but by contrast it seems noticeable only after a short period of vivacity. I grow further apart from it day by day. As I grow older and further apart from that moment when I tried and failed from lack of trying or misguided intentions - I don’t know. Is it better to leave a trace of potential or to leave a stain of failed attempts? The longer I stay here the longer I consume. Yeah, that’s what I do -  I consume. This is not about you, or him, or her, or anyone else -  this is all about me. All about self-preservation, ultimately selfish and all-consuming, more of a comfort that I run to rather than an obsession.