Hugo told me that within a writer is contained a world.

You don’t write anything besides grocery lists on the backs of stained coupons.

That must explain why people tell me my eyes are old souls, but say that yours are barren.

I could stare into them forever, not because of beauty, but in fascination, for I’ve never seen any pit as black as those eyes.

Besides your soul.

Of course, I’ve only ever viewed your soul when you pass out with Jack on your breath; with those scared, scratched, scarred fists finally flat, and you let your borders down long enough for me to see.

I open my old eyes and see that the pit continues from your sockets down to your toes.

Sleep does nothing to change the fact that you are empty, devoid nearly of life and meaning.

If I’m not careful I’ll be ****** into that pitch.

Mother always warned me that the brightest burn out the quickest, so I should keep my light away from you. Really, I’m tiring of being careful.

There is a bit of beauty in the dankness of your despair, but I’m tired of romanticizing your illness because all it does is make me sicker than this chemo ever has.

Stop burning out my light.