The little things you forget, kill me.

I know you’re just a rag doll now, sewn together with memories that we might have had. I know you’re just the dream inside of a dream And don’t worry, I know I don’t know you, anymore.

You’re just another story I can’t tell anymore.

Someone had told him one day that you forget the voices of those whom you have been close to in the past very quickly.

The sun still, surprisingly, came up and shone down onto the cold, metal leftovers. No loud noises. No screams. No breaking glass. Just silence and sunshine. You would be forgiven for thinking that this all happened on another planet. It didn’t.

Being gifted doesn’t mean you’ve been given something. It means, you have something to give.