The Wealthy Dead by Seneca
Looking at myself, looking at you. You are, are you. Familiarity or necessity. Confusion is a misty grayness, something like the darkness. Solid to the seam. Positive things lie in the shadow of rain. Forever trapped behind glass and reflections. You are smearing the image. You must go far away. And you must be far away. Iâ€™ve never been this close to the stars, and still itâ€™s not enough to help forget what was. What was once. I pushed you so hard tonight, but I wanted to breathe you in so hard tonight. Why do I do this to myself, you and us. I hate this is so much.