, 30 2005 . 19:51
+
, , - . ... ! ! !!! , :) , , . ...
There are no choices. Nothing but a straight line. The illusion comes afterwards, when you ask 'Why me?' and 'What if?'. When you look back and see the branches, like a pruned bonsai tree, or forked lightning. If you had done something differently, it wouldn't be you, it would be someone else looking back, asking a different set of questions.
The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels. Your only chance is to turn around and face it. But it's like looking down into the grave of your love, or kissing the mouth of a gun, a bullet trembling in its dark nest, ready to blow
your head off.
The past is a puzzle, like a broken mirror. As you peice it together, your image keeps shifting. And you change with it. It could destroy you, drive you mad. It could set you free.
Your past has a way of sneaking up on you. You'll hear broken echoes of it everywhere, like a bad replay. You'll get mad at everyone for reminding you about it, even if it's all in your head.
The trouble with wanting something is the fear of losing it, or never getting it. The thought makes you weak.
Killing them all only made it worse; it didn't bring them back.
Sooner or later it would catch up with you. You'd find that Lady Luck was really a hooker and you were fresh out of cash.
He was trying to buy more sand for his hour glass. I wasn't selling any.
The cardinal rule in going after someone with an intention to kill was no to make it personal... Which it almost always ended up being anyway. It did with me.
They were all dead. The final gunshot was an exclamation mark on everything that had led to this point. I released my finger from the trigger, and it was over.
I don't know about angels, but it's fear that gives men wings.
