Good on you to have thrown that slip to the wind and walked away. Saying: not today, dark one! I don't need your keepsakes. I am *not* curious. Let the past disintegrate, let its ink wash off into the Bay of Martinaise. You're through with it. There is no terrifying splash of stomach acid to fill you with dread, no caustic lack of air. You haven't lost anything *incredibly precious*, too precious to name. You got shit on a stick. All you need to do is keep the shit balanced on the stick and everything will be fine!
Splat. *Splattady-splat*, Harry. You know what that means? It means the shit has fallen off the stick and it's *bad* again. You lost something. And it's not your gun. It's not your badge. It's not your uniform. You can find all of those things. No, the charred echo was left by that one thing you will *never* find again. Not even if you dive into the sea in search of it. It's the love of your life, Harry. The scent is everywhere, the sound is in everything. The alarm goes off at three.
This page was last edited on 17 January 2021, at 23:03.
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