But mourning the loss of David would be like a child mourning the loss of an invisible friend. None of it was real. It was hypothetical; it was fiction. We played intensity chicken with each other, sluts for overblown, artificial sentiment and a desperate need to feel something deep in the dark, damp basement of ourselves. It was words and spaces. It was pixels. A game of The Sims; a game of dress-up love. It was bouncing off satellites in a tightly choreographed dance.
This reminds me of what "situationships" feel lke afterthe end, yet feel so real in the moment
