You must give him your life. He won't settle for less. He will turn it into poetry and become you for a little while. He will wear your skin next to his own and feel your darkest pains, your most exquisite pleasures. He will finally understand your definition of love and why you will leave him. He will steal the secret of your deepest longing and know how to satisfy you. But he will make a few unasked for subtle alterations in your soul. Then he will return it as something slightly different. You will notice. He will amaze you; he will charm you. You might even love him, but you will never trust him.
To make a new world you must be willing to ****** the old gods, step over their corpses, through the madness, out of the darkness, eternally alone, into the empty garden of your own creation. - mce
The whiskey bottle is empty. Now there is a sufficiently sad sentence. Succinct, too. It speaks a grave-side quiet, as when emptiness is all. The whiskey bottle is empty. Five words leading only to a garbage can. The whiskey bottle is empty. The simple, declarative, syntax of nothing.