I don't like breathing in the present so ferociously, flushing down the past to a dark undignified cellar.
You say what else to do after being shot and remembering you're not bulletproof. You don't like illusion do you, you say.
And I say I guess maybe you're right, and really how permanent is writing anymore really, there is no crime in burning letters, spoken words are more permanent.
And so I become like you. And call it growing up.