. . . Instead, I watch grains of sand slip through my fingers, and I end up hating sand, and my fingers, but let’s face it: they’re the only fingers I’m ever going to have. So, I apologize, and stop thinking about time under the influence of warm water and lit candles, singing lowly to my own personal lake until it vanishes beneath metal grating, and I end up cold and not so much in a better place, still thinking about time and people and those people that are lost to time.
Sometimes I consider the hidden fees associated with fucking macaroni and cheese.
from octonaut, a long time ago