Sometimes I just want to write my thoughts down on my fingertips, and have them channel through onto the closest bit of scrap paper. A drawing of words. A reminder of how it felt, a river by which I can travel backwards into the dark jungle of pain and wild animals. As they jump up from the cold water, and down from the lifeless trees. They surround me, waiting to feast on my chest. Waiting to rip open my chest and ribs, and clench my heart and thrust it into the air, as if to mark a significant achievement. They take it back to the dungeons, and feast on it, like carnivores with no hearts. They substitute their nothingness with my everything. The same way she did. That heartless beauty.