Not right now.
the right amount of solemn desolation, dignified through gentle vibrations of piano keys. The only music that can bring me to prompt tears.
Still and all a pattern of staccato sound is resounding from the bathroom, it helps me think.
plump.
plump.
pllluuump.
"What have you done now?"
"for the love of God, have you not done enough now?"
I never knew it's so painful to know that people you love could really hate you, hate you for allegedly hurting their heart so bad. Scarred as though for life. Tainted as though there's no forgiveness to match its vice.
