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No amount of beauty can await our own death. The death of self. The cessation of existence. We write ourselves in and out of this system. Undulating and ebbing in and out. Drowning us with our own flow. Death and life are the same, equal and harmonic. We are neither dead nor alive, but trapped as ghosts in a body with a fixated point in time. That point always at the mercy of the weave of time. We’re but a piece of wood in a river. Perhaps, the wood is still alive… perhaps it is dead. We will never know. The day we reach shore is a day I eagerly await.

It is raining. The curtains are drawn, and the sun peeks over the horizon at points to lay an orange light through the rain. Soft and red. Rose, even.
Fingers reach out to part the curtain. Looking off into the distance. There, down the road lies the end of the world. Where the sun meets the horizon, and bleeds across the pavement. Golden liquid, touched with wet asphalt on all corners.

What day is it? Is it dawn or dusk? Does it matter.. does anything matter? No matter what we do, we cant change our past. It haunts us like a lion stalking an injured deer. Waiting for us to finally become too exhausted to continue on, and to lie down and succumb to its torment. At the end of the road is always death. Where the fire of the sun meets the earth and goes to the underworld, leaving behind its golden entrails, reflected in the rain.

Quinn took a step back from the window and closed the curtains. The room was dark. Nothing but the wet damp earth could be smelled. Musty, dark, and old. He took out a cigarette and his lighter. He struck the lighter with his thumb and a golden flame shone as he lit his cigarette. The light reflecting for only a brief moment before fading away in the room.. only the glow of the end of his cigarette could be seen and the occasional smoke obscuring it.

He sat down on the stairs, and watched the last of the sunset peek underneath the door and spill into the room. It crept up the floor like rising floodwaters and reached the edges of the room. Wood paneling, floorboards, and dust. Nobody had lived here for a long time. It didnt matter, nobody will anyhow. As the light crept up in its dying breaths, a reflection of something metallic shot a spot onto the ceiling, like a moth in a dusty room. Nobody will come. Nobody, and I’ll make sure of that. Nobody will come for me, and that will be the end. Nobody will care.

the spot flittered in the air as Quinn moved. The daylight fading from the floor.  Quinn stood up and kicked a canister down. the last of the daylight touched upon the liquid that poured from it.

“goodnight sweet prince.” He grinned.