All of my memories are fake, for I have no memories. I am a shell full of ghosts. From values to non-values, from cherishes to crushed strawberries, the made-ups have stood the test of my time, and my time is of absolute zero. I project with projectiles in the face of adversity, like the Iron Dome at midnight. I disqualify law and etiquette—I have sorted my own. And me, me, me, I can’t afford you to quit unscathed.
At the time, 2016, her uselessness was so bearable. In full sight, you could tell the relentlessness in her eyes. Poke at her left eye and a kind of darkness would suffice you. It would really suffice, and comfort too. Cheap and plastic, punk alright.
She should have not mattered. Like, at all. This would have preserved some sense of correctness, of hope and perseverance. Her transientness and subsequent eternal apotheosis created in me a black hole and it has been producing false statements ever since.
How unfair. But what was I expecting? Oh, you, teen oracle. You always knew, did you?
