Why is it that at the end of every sentence I write. There's a man with a knife piercing it's blade into the back of my brain. My mind feels colder this year. Minutes die faster but hours live longer. Half-empty water bottles like my goals scattered across my room. I wrapped a noose around concequences neck and kicked the chair he stood on. I watched his legs dangle like dancing ballerinas on top of a frozen creek. His face went colorless. Then I buried him beneath my bed.