blackbird from the blue.

> john: breathe.

sometimes, when things get so dark, and all you can think about is the good old days, how much you miss them want them need them--music is what holds you back.

what makes it feel like coming home, even if it really isn't.

this is hello, and this is goodbye.

You don't feel like doing anything nowadays, because it's always been the same thing: you wake up, stare at the clouds for a few seconds, and then go back to sleep right away. Rinse, repeat. It's left a sour taste in your mouth. Back then, you didn't really know what kept you coming back for more of the same goddamn thing over, and over, and over again--but this time, you do.

(they'll come back, i'm sure of it, they have to--)

(no.)

(no, they won't.)

You've finally woken up.

As you lie on the ground, you haven't moved an inch since you've opened your eyes, quietly watching as the sky begins to crumble into bits and pieces. This is nothing new, really. Your entire world has been falling apart for a while now, but you think, at least, you're 99.413% sure, that there's a finality attached to this. The final stretch.

Not that you can really guarantee it, not even to yourself, but you suppose there's only one way to find out.

You start to slowly close your eyes,

wish for a way out like you always do,