the THIRD of OCTOBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.

the sun is dying. all that is left is the bitter resentment of sunburn.
i don't think the sun is very pretty anymore. her rotten flesh has slipped, false sanctity.
i don't think the sun was meant for me. a poor excuse to submerge into the cold beneath me.
to regurgitate the flames she breathed into me, to burn everything the way she burned me. self destruct.
i await your downfall as eagerly as i await my own. when i go down, you all come down with me. traitors.
the sunburn begins to blister. i don't think it'll heal.

take me back!