Well, I was more of a wimp. I used to outsource my capacities from elsewhere in better ways. Gabriella would scold me about it, repeatedly. A three-story building explodes and people die in it. It was supposed to be a preliminary scene for a movie in-the-making. But homeless people don’t learn, do they, that the city hates them with blake anger. Gabriella was probably scolding me still when the building caught her on fire. Such a failed Sharon Tate and now she was dying. Homeless, nonetheless.
Well it is true that we hate one another. She is content in her depression, and so am I. Truce be told, and it was nice while it lasted.
At last, she was aghast. Yet she picked fast entropy over every beautiful thing that matters. Every each one damn time.
