I used to love your stories until I saw how horribly they end; and if winners are writing history, claiming affinity for narrative, there remain inconsistencies to address.
Is the Dream still a thing, or are we content to consume it all now? Is fame like cheap whisky or is everyone simply trying to water it down?
Is love at first sight
(opposite platforms, obstructive trains)
convenience or destined to occur commuting between
shelter from a squall
in the rain?
(Acts of God or games of chance?)
Can we advance as a planet or is this our plateau, bombing places the modern conscience doesn’t go?
Fighting over whether women should have control of themselves when it was settled long ago?
The difference between a man and his guns? Too complex to know, say those who love their bullets most.
All I know is
are not worthy of stars, for we would immediately discard them once harvested of
It’s simply who we are.