mburke
I don't want to die. But if I did, I think a firearm would be a good way to go.
He was just a stencil, a copy of something more significant. He always wished that he was original, he tried so damn hard to be, but in the end he would never be as interesting as that original image.
He wasn't suicidal, not even a little bit. He'd never even consider it. All he was trying to say was that if he died, he'd be happy. He just didn't want it to be his fault.
She didn't tell him to go to hell. She didn't storm out in a fury. She didn't cheat on him. She didn't tell him he wasn't good enough. She just apologized and left. Somehow this would hurt him more.
His timid eyes always gave away his darkest secret. He smiled, acted confident, some would even say debonair, but for those who ever looked longingly into his eyes they would see beyond the shell of a man that had become so competent at deceiving the world. They would only see a frightened soul clinging to the unlikelihood that one day he would finally convince himself he was the man everyone believed him to be.
The crow looked down upon the world. He mocked the broken people as they drifted throughout the crowded streets. He laughed and laughed, making piercing jokes at the world's expense, until he turned and realized he was just as alone as the worst of them.
Nothing is eternal, everything ends.
Once again, he spent his night alone. Too fatigued to sleep. Too depressed to cry. Too lonely to be with friends.
We choose to be evil. God doesn't design us to be hateful, fate doesn't force us to kill each other, and destiny doesn't tell us to steal and betray for monetary gain. God doesn't make the world this way, we do.
He gave his speech with trepidation, nervously fingering his notes as he stumbled through it. He looked out at the audience, clearly they were all judging him harshly. As sweat dripped down his brow, falling upon the now wrinkled paper before him, he tried to compose himself. If it hadn't been for her, maybe he would have succeeded.
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