People talk about the banality of evil but it’s the matter-of-factness of grief that gets me.
That split-second or less of blissful normality between dream and waking, that instant of the universe being back to what it ought to be.
Dashed again, and again, and again, day after day after day, when reality screams and it hurts from the back of my eyeballs, gazing at the burnt and desiccated ruins of false hope.
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