He died in the end.
That’s what happened in the book I bought the day we met. If I’d have known maybe I’d have chose more carefully, with an eye toward the future, an ear out for irony, for coincidence. He died in the end. That’s what happened in the movie we saw the day we met. Maybe I’d have chosen more carefully, had I known how the book, and we, ended. With an eye on the prize or the prizefighter or whatever hearts are these days. Do we love or fight or love to fight or fight to love, it’s a little less clear on Wednesdays and days ending too soon or not soon enough. Love had nothing to do with it, but it’s a word I like to throw around too often, like confetti for ears and eyes and olfactory senses that make the bright lights show up. We’re factories churning out emotions like dogs churn out shit, equally shitty and both are waste. And waste not want not, we make use of the churned out bullshit to create lies upon lies, fabrications that can hold us over for years like the best of false feasts turned sour in the end. And in the end we all croak, whether it be book movie or ill-fated affair lacking in foundation. Walls without floor in the house without home and the love without feelings, the kind we create out of less than what we had when we were children, it’s just mud and false promises.
